Lost and Found
by Lone Tube Sock
Summary: When California's foster care system becomes fed up with Lilly's bad behavior, they send her packing to Ledgewood, Tennessee. Ms. Stewart is a first year teacher at Lilly's new high school... Their lives are about to become derailed. AU. LILEY!
1. Chapter 1

_One Week Prior:_

Patricia's face was haggard. Dark circles emboldened her dull eyes, and her lips were taut with undue stress. She'd been up for days, in heated battles with several jurisdictions concerning the fate of Lillian Truscott. Throughout her years in the foster care program, Lilly was paddled up and down the California coastline, from foster home to foster home. Wherever she went, a murky cloud of trouble seemed to follow. The constant tumult proved to be an effective repellent, cutting ties and souring her reputation. Patricia's fellow social workers gleefully sided with the Malibu court system's decision to reassign the girl to an entirely separate region. Despite the lack of support, Patricia altruistically regarded the teenager as her favorite ward of the state.

Lilly sat before her, hands casually folded and demeanor unreadable. Patricia sighed and addressed the girl for the first time since she'd entered the office. "I'm going to be frank with you, Lilly," she began. "The system is fed up with your behavior. No one is willing to open their home to a delinquent. How many foster parents have you had over this past year alone?"

Lilly kicked her legs out. "Six," she answered, swinging her feet back and forth in a steady rhythm.

"Six!" cried Patricia. "Six! I've lost count of the number of homes you've been transferred to over the past nine years."

_47_, the blonde thought, biting her lip. Patricia was the closest thing to a maternal figure as she'd ever gotten, and Lilly hated herself for disappointing the woman. She could tell Patricia was at her wit's end. Her eyes were glossy with a desperation that hadn't been there before.

"They're moving you to another state, Lilly," she said finally, quietly. "I've tried appealing the decision, you have to know that. I tried my best, but I can only do so much."

Outwardly, Lilly was cooler than a winter storm, but inwardly, she flinched. "Oh," was all she replied despite her festering innards. Her swinging feet picked up momentum. She felt her nails dig crescents into her palms.

"_Oh_? That's _all_ you have to say?"

Lilly shrugged. "What do you want to hear?"

Patricia rubbed her watery eyes, and pointed at the door, thoroughly defeated. "_Out_, Lilly. _Please._ Just get out."

_Present:_

The jolty take off gives me this childlike rush. It's my first time on an airplane, and the experience doesn't disappoint. Mr. Lopez, my state appointed escort, is sitting next to me, snapping peppermint bubblegum and making irregular small talk. He's telling me about some magazine article, but it's apparent that I'm little more than a business transaction to him. One of the bubbly stewardesses confuses me for a pre-teen and, in a candy sweet baby voice, offers to pin pilot wings onto my shirt. I decline, but accept the souvenir, quickly stuffing it into my pocket before I get a chance to reconsider it.

The plane lands on a single strip of runway. _Welcome to Podunk, Tenne-fucking-see_. I briefly register my biting laugh.

Last weekend, after Patricia had revealed my destination, I played a word association game with myself. It was a ritual I'd adopted to essentially calm my nerves. They had a tendency to flicker, skip, and hiss like live wire. Tennessee conjured up things like Jack Daniel's, the Grand Ole Opry, dirt roads, Bible thumpers, rednecks with shotguns, nothing too pleasant apart from the whiskey. I then immediately stole off to the recreation room and Googled the city's name on the antique, communal PC. I read that Ledgewood was sparsely populated and, as far as the pictures divulged, all too woodsy. That night, I closed my eyes and tried to picture myself there, in the countryside, smack dab in some flowery field… or strung up by the neck, solemn townsfolk bunched around, pitchforks in hand. I expected some stereotypically backwards small town—some place untouched by big city ideals… corrupt and corruptible at the same time.

I guess I'm about to find out.

Mr. Lopez's rental car rolls up to a middle class neighborhood. The house is decent, far from shabby but nothing too fancy. It's a plain white color, as blank as I feel. There's a small army of garden gnome statuettes and pink flamingos on the front lawn. On the off chance inanimate objects were to come to life and band together against the human race, I'd be worried.

My foster parents, Linda and Mark Hammley, seem as boring as the house's interior motif. Linda initially comes off as an unspectacular stick in the mud. I think it has something to do with her get-up. Her hair's done up in the stiffest bun I've ever seen, and her long sleeved dress runs all the way down to her ankles.

We're sitting down for dinner. Linda reveals she's a teacher, and Mark works at an oil change shop. They have no children or pets. Linda hopes I like it here. Mark doesn't talk much aside from the occasional request to pass him some condiment or another. When Linda runs out of Hammley tidbits, she tentatively asks me a slew of questions.

"So, Lillian—"

"Lilly," I correct, stabbing a green bean.

"Ah, Lilly, sorry. You're 15, right?"

"Right," I confirm. I don't know why I'm engaging in this pointless exchange. They know my age. They know everything about me from freckle placements to shoe size, courtesy of the foster agency. I never understood the necessity of formalities. These introductions are messy, uncomfortable, and redundant.

"Malibu sounds like such an exciting place. I hope you tell us about it."

"Yeah." I bite into the green bean. I bet any place sounds exciting after 5 minutes of this dump.

Mr. Lopez wipes his moustache. "She's just shy," he explains. "She'll warm up." His assurance is stamped with apology.

After Mr. Lopez leaves, Mark retreats to his recliner with a twelve pack of imported beer. I almost want to cackle at the textbook predicability of it all. Is there a prerequisite that calls for subpar moral fiber in prospective foster parents? My last ones, the Jennings, were hoarders. They took foster kids on board for the monthly check each head secured. Their idea of pampering us included a game of Ms. Pac-Man and a clearanced candy bar. Mr. Jennings was a closet perv and Mrs. Jennings' primary diet consisted of cheap Sangria and Black Russian cigarettes. On the up side, she was a happy drunk. When she was sauced enough I'd bamboozle a couple dollars out of her. I kept every bill wadded up inside a spare sock. I'm saving up to get the fuck out of this system.

Linda seems embarrassed, but doesn't say anything apart from her grimace. I wouldn't be surprised if she's one of those battered wife types. This scenario has all the elements of a formulaic Lifetime Network original movie. You'd think I'd be more perturbed, but this is a fucking cake walk in comparison to some of my past living arrangements.

She distracts me with a short tour of the house, and shows me to my room. "The bathroom is across the hall," she points. She goes in first, flicking the light switch and illuminating the space. It's big, and painted solid lavender. There's a bed, full length mirror, dresser, and a small desk holding a cute table lamp and a PC. Mark brought my bags up beforehand. "I hope it's okay," says Linda. "Feel free to put up posters, or pictures."

"It's… nice," I answer. She just nods and leaves.

I toss myself on the mattress and bite the inside of my cheek, surprised when I don't bolt up out of bed. I figure I'm dreaming, still back in the Malibu group home with dozens of other throwaways. I don't know what's worse, being stranded here or being stranded there.

Linda drives me to the high school. "Do you remember your way back home from here?" she asks as the car comes to a stop.

I nod and climb out, heaving my backpack over my shoulders.

"If you have any problems, don't be shy to give me a call. I work a couple blocks down at the elementary school."

I nod again, and she waves as she drives off.

People are already eyeballing me, no doubt trying to figure me out. I'm probably the most exciting thing that's gotten around to this town since electricity. The school is a cramped single-story building, and my classes are ridiculously easy to find.

My schedule consists of Trigonometry, AP World Literature, Biology, AP World History, P.E., and Theater. No, I'm not ambitious. God, I hate preconceptions. I hate assessment tests even more. If I had any say in the matter, my classes would be made up of finger painting, Duck Duck Goose, and nap time whims. I'm one of the whopping five in Trig. I bet the head count doesn't fair much better in my subsequent courses, and it doesn't.

Lunch time comes and goes, just like my hunger pangs. Linda gave me some cash this morning, but my desire for independence overshadows the lunch menu items. I opt to add the fiver to my wad of savings.

I'm in the provisional auditorium. I heard the last auditorium got charred in a botched Sadie Hawkins prank, and the school board is waiting on government funding to trickle down. There are rows of metal folding chairs for seats, and a portable stage. The bell rings. Ms. Stewart or whatever is late. I have this unwritten rule about tardy teachers. If they're missing for a full 20 minutes, I feel entitled to walk out.

5 minutes tick by, and the door flaps open. My eyes lazily wander over, and I almost do a double take. She's unbelievably hot. You know, the kind of teacher that gets apples everyday. She can't be any older than 25. Everyone's at attention all of the sudden.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she says. I'm sorry she's late too. Mostly because it cut 5 minutes from my allotted class time, which means I'll only get to stare at her for another 55.

She makes us do yoga exercises and then we play some silly improv game. My reluctance totally melts under her reassuring smile. I'm bummed when the bell rings. No one seems to stand, except for two chatty girls in the front. Ms. Stewart laughs and claps her hands together. "You know," she grins. "You guys can leave now. School's over."

There's a collective shuffle of feet and chair legs. Embarrassment creeps upon my cheeks in the form of a light pink flush. Before I can leave, I hear her call my name, "Lillian?"

I gulp and swipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. My collar feels suffocatingly tight. I slowly turn around and make my way towards her. "Yeah?" I answer.

The rest of the class has already vacated. It's just me and her. I suppress a shiver. "I just wanted to personally offer you my support," she says.

I squint my eyes a little, suspicious of her extended hand. What's with the hospitality? Does she know I'm a foster kid or something? Usually, when news gets around people are really liberal with the pity.

"This whole experience must be scary for you. New things, new places. They're not always the easiest to deal with," she smiles at me and admits, "I can relate to your situation. This is actually my first year teaching, and it's been intimidating to say the least."

"No way. You can't tell, you know," I blurt, feeling a case of word diarrhea coming up. I know the symptomatic feeling.

She looks confused. "Can't tell what?"

"That you've never done this before with the way you teach. You're so confident, natural… fluid. Come on, Ms. Stewart, you can't honestly say that you haven't noticed the way everyone's captivated by you?" There it is, the shit to top all shits.

I don't think she knows how to answer. I'm surprised to see some red coloration in her cheeks. If I didn't know any better, I'd say she was flustered. Hell, it's just wishful thinking. "Thank you," she finally says, smiling.

"Uh, yeah. I mean, it's whatever" I'm fidgeting. "Can I go now?"

On my way back to the Hammley's, I hear someone call out my name. "Lilly, right?" I glance behind my shoulder. It's a shaggy haired boy.

"Who's asking?"

"Oliver Oken," he introduces, pushing a little faster to catch up. "I'm in your Trig and Biology classes."

"So?"

He shrugs. "I thought we could walk together. It looks like we're heading in the same direction anyway."

"Okay," I sigh. I let him walk beside me. It's quiet for the most part.

"Where'd you move from?"

"Malibu."

"Cool! As in Malibu, California?"

"No. Malibu, Ohio."

"Oh."

I can't help my laugh. "I'm dicking around."

"Oh." He lets himself laugh too.


	2. Chapter 2

I'm puttering around the kitchen, looking for a snack. There's nothing in the fridge apart from beer, jelly, Tupperware, and an old take-out carton. It seems like whenever a fridge is more or less empty, you're stuck with this awkward assortment of jars and mystery containers. I quickly snag two of the long necked bottles and head to my room.

I'm kind of a light weight. The two bottles have been drained and I've got a nice enough buzz. Perfect conditions for homework, if you ask me. Halfway through my last assignment, I decide that I'm entirely too sober. Large volumes of Trig can and will suck the weeping soul right out of you. Monotony is evil like that. Just look at those cubicle confined office workers. They've got a higher propensity to snap and make Swiss cheese out of their similarly soulless bosses and co-workers. Juvy is no better than foster care in many aspects, but I'll miss the sun, so my soul's staying with me.

My beer run proves to be fruitless because Linda's in the kitchen with the phone squished to her ear. It's one of those prehistoric ones with a chord longer than a spool of twine. I try to backpedal out before she sees me, but I misaim my step and my foot bangs against the wall, hard enough to make me bite my lip. She gives me a faint smile and waves me over with a knife in hand. I take a seat at the counter.

"Well, tell Miley I'm looking forward to seeing her. I know her job must be stressful, but it's been months. I remember when she was just a little girl. She loved coming over here," Linda trails off and finishes running the blade through a carrot. The person on the other line must have said something funny because she laughs. "Alright, Robbie. I'll see you two tonight."

Linda wipes her hands on her apron and hangs up the phone. "How was school?" she asks.

"It was okay."

"Are you hungry? I'm making a special supper. An old friend and his daughter are coming over. I want you to meet them." Linda starts sectioning potatoes.

I nod, and she keeps talking, "Mark won't be home for a few days. He's at a managerial conference in Nashville. His company's always coming up with new regulations and sales strategies. I'm sorry he didn't get a chance to say goodbye."

I don't care. "I have to finish my homework."

She let's me leave.

After dumping the completed assignments in my backpack, I put on my mp3 player and lay down for a nap. It was a birthday present from Patricia. A couple months before that, I'd been busted for trying to steal one from some department store, and she remembered. Funnily, the mp3 player was the exact cool raspberry blue color as the one I'd tried to lift. Maybe it was intentional. Patricia had a weird sense of humor, and irony was one of her favorite avenues.

There's a sharp knock on the door that wakes me up. I don't know how long I've been napping, but it couldn't have been too long. I rub my eyes and do a little stretch as I answer the door. Surprise, surprise, it's Linda. "Dinner's ready," she smiles.

I go into the bathroom and splash some cold water on my face before heading downstairs. There's two people seated at the dining table with Linda. One of them is a blonde haired man around Linda's age. I think it's safe to assume that he's Robbie. The other guest is seated with her back to me so all I can make out is a nice figure and free flowing brown curls. There's something strikingly familiar about her…

I keep my eyes on the ground as I walk over to the table and slide into a seat, ready to deflect any attention. "Robbie, Miley," I hear Linda say. "This is Lilly."

I take that as my cue to look up. First at Robbie, who gives me a welcoming grin and a firm hand shake, and then to Miley…

_Oh my God!_

Miley is Ms. Stewart! Miley… is… Ms. Stewart… Hello? Brain? Where are you?

This is no time for my good reason to take a sabbatical. I think I might be staring, either dumbfounded or puppy dog eyed. She looks as surprised as I do, but soon blinks it away. "Hello, Lilly," she smiles. It's the first time I hear her call me by my informal name, and I want to swoon.

"Hi, Ms. Stewart," I manage.

Linda and Robbie look perplexed, and Ms. Stewart (I don't care how endearing her name is, it's weird calling her Miley), launches into an explanation, "Lilly is in one of my Theater classes." Okay so it's not a lengthy manifesto, but it'll do.

"What a funny coincidence," laughs Linda. "How do you like having her as a teacher?"

"Linda, please," she gasps, flushing underneath the pressure of the question.

She's amazing. I could look at her all day and dream up philosophies and flowing sonnets. I would spend an eternity dusting chalkboard erasers for her, even if the constant chalk inhalation meant developing things like black lung disease or emphysema. "She's okay," I shrug. _Liar, liar._

To my relief, the conversation shifts to another direction. My mouth remains shut for most of the meal. Robbie asks me a couple of questions, and my replies are short and to-the-point. I think the ability to speak concisely and effectively is a real gift. Most people just blather on for days. Rambling is easy.

Linda seems different now that Mark's not around. Peppier and relaxed. She's chatty and using the kind of smiles that reach your eyes. The atmosphere is warm, and comfortable. Maybe it has something to do with Ms. Stewart. I've caught her glancing at me every now and then. What's that about? Pity, probably.

My rationalization kind of pisses me off. I know what they say about assuming and assumptions in general, but I don't need anyone's fucking pity! I don't care how pretty she is, or how vibrant her eyes are. By the time Linda places a slice of pie in front of me, I'm silently fuming. I stab at my dessert. Stab… Stab... _stabstabstabstabstab_…

"Are you okay?" It's Ms. Stewart. She's the only one that seems to detect my mood swing. Convenient, huh?

"I don't feel good. May I be excused?" I don't even give her the satisfaction of a glare. My words are addressed at Linda.

She nods. "Of course."

The last thing I hear is Ms. Stewart's voice calling after me, "I hope you feel better, Lilly." I shudder.

My bad mood bleeds into the next day. I walk to school before Linda can offer me a ride. That pesky Oliver kid tried to tag along, but I gave him the shove off. I think he's one of those overly sensitive types because I swear his eyes misted up. Anyway, I perfect the art of glowering through my first 5 periods, and dread the 6th. My Trig teacher tries to enlist me in some competitive math team, but I give him the shove off too. Competitive math? Come on now. He might as well have given me retainers, elastic suspenders, and a notice citing the untimely demise of my social life.

I think about skipping 6th period, but decide against it. It's my second day. If I screw up here, the foster agency might move me to some lamer version of this town, and considering this town's unparalleled lameness, I can only imagine two other places: 1) some llama ranch in Montana, or 2) an igloo in desolate Alaska.

I half-ass my way through the stupid yoga warm ups and improv exercises. I feel Ms. Stewart eyeballing me throughout the activities. I swear to God I'm ready to pop. She tries to get my attention a couple times by asking uninterested ol' me to critique someone's improv. How much more obvious can she get? I mean, there are at least a dozen kids who look like they're about to piss their pants in anticipation of getting called--no joke, and she singles _me_ out. My responses are curt. Before the bell rings, she informs us that we'll be grouping up for an assignment in a week's time. "Give it some thought," she says.

I'm itching to leave. I almost bowl someone over in my effort to escape.

Two steps away from freedom and I hear a hesitant, "Lilly?" Guess who?

I groan and slowly trudge towards Ms. Stewart. The door flaps shut and stays shut, and we're the last ones in here again. "Yeah?" I say, keeping good distance between us.

"How are you feeling?"

I shrug.

"Is there something wrong? Did I do something wrong?" She's not sure. It seems like it's been eating away at her since last night.

Does she expect me to bare my fucking soul? Maybe even break down and tearfully initiate some kind of self-pity powwow? I hate people with Dr. Phil aspirations. "What do you want to hear?" I say. That's my favorite line. It's safer than a blatant 'fuck you', yet still delivers a kick of defiance.

"The truth." She folds her arms over her chest, and stares at me. I get the feeling she won't let me leave until she gets some reaction. I can picture her resorting to methods like waterboarding and shoving bamboo shoots under my fingernails.

"I just don't need your pity, alright?" I reveal, quietly... quickly. Like a Band-Aid. _One—two!_ I'm looking at my shoes. They're pretty scuffed up, but comfy.

She touches my wrist, and then wraps her fingers around it. My skin tingles. A shiver shoots down my spine. My heart skips an important beat. Blood's rushing to indecent places. "Look at me, Lilly," she demands. Her grip tightens ever so slightly.

I oblige. Her eyes are doing things to mine that I can't even begin to describe. "I don't pity you," she says. Her tone is soft, and caressing. "I don't pity you," she repeats.

"Whatever." I let my eyes fall back, trying to shake her off. I feel like a bucking circus bronco.

Her other hand comes up to my face and gently tilts my head upward. "I don't pity you," she whispers. "You're a strong person. I'm sure the trials and tribulations you've faced would be enough to make someone six times your age blubber like a baby. I admire you for your experiences, Lilly."

Her words pull at the bindings around my heart, the ones I've worked so hard on fastening since I was a kid. I resist. "You're full of shit, Ms. Stewart, and presuming to know anything about me or my life is a huge mistake." I rip my arm away from her, and stumble backwards.

I run all the way home.


	3. Chapter 3

A had this shrink once, Maureen--court appointed, of course. She told me I ran from everything. She said, "Lillian, do you know what your problem is? You're afraid of getting hurt. The world's not so scary, kid. Give people a chance. If you keep pushing, there won't be anyone left." I remember she'd sat back, unwrapped a grape sucker, and popped it in her mouth. I noticed she rewarded herself whenever she hit a breakthrough. I couldn't give her the satisfaction of being right. An admission would have signified defeat... and weakness.

I remember shaking with venom as I said, "Maureen, do you know what_ your_ problem is? You like to feel all self-important, when in reality, you've always been insecure. I see right through your second-rate act. It probably makes you feel good knowing that you're not as fucked up as your clients. I bet you go home with this false sense of accomplishment, hoping that it'll carry you through the night, but it doesn't, does it? I wouldn't be surprised if you ate your pain. You've gained like 10 lbs since I started seeing you, Maureen. Get a grip on yourself." She tore the lollipop out of her mouth and ended the session prematurely. I never saw her again.

I remember leaving her office feeling smugger than ever, an unknockable shit-eating grin fixed square on my face. I know Maureen was right. Her prophetic words are now forever emblazoned in my subconscious. I had pushed my way out of Malibu, just like I'll probably push my way out of Ledgewood. God, I'm a coward.

There's a note on the kitchen counter:

_I have an after school workshop. If you need anything call Robbie, or Miley. Their numbers are on the fridge._

_Linda_

_Fat chance._ I scoff and pick up an apple. Two bites into the thing and the door bell rings. Oliver fidgets under the force of my glare. His shoes scratch against the coarse welcome mat. "What?" I ask.

"I saw you come in here," he explains. "I live three houses down." He points at a tan version of the Hammley residence.

"That's very stalker-ish of you. You're not a serial killer, are you?"

He ignores me. "I thought we could hang out."

I give him a bogus smile, and exclaim, "Yeah!" I lay the enthusiasm on thick. My voice embodies cheer squad captain.

His eyes perk up. "Really?"

"Yeah… No." I shake my head. What a sucker.

He hangs his head. "Come in," I sigh. "I've just been having a bad day." I don't know what came over me. Maybe I want a distraction from Ms. Stewart and my parade of obsessive thoughts. Yeah, that's gotta be it. It can't be a desire for human companionship. I mean, I hate people. If there's some future standoff involving robots and humans, I'd side with the robots. That should give you an impression of the extent of my disdain for humans and human affairs. Why would I want to start making nice now?

_Okay_… I'm lonely. The whole toughie tooth, 'I don't need anyone' routine is tiresome, even on a professional scale.

I offer him a drink because I think that's what you're supposed to do, and then we sit on the couch. "So…" I clear my throat. "Do you want to make out?"

His eyes absolutely bug out, and I lose my composure, giggling hysterically. "I'm joking," I assure. "You're not exactly my type."

He's a good sport. "I didn't know the Hammley's had a daughter," he says. "We've been neighbors for years."

"They don't. I'm not their daughter."

"Oh. So, how do you know them?"

"I don't." It was true. I didn't really know them.

He gives me an incredulous look. "They're my foster parents," I admit.

"Oh," he says. "That's cool. My Dad was adopted at birth."

"Yay. You should introduce us. Maybe he'll be interested in starting a club. He can't mind playing second fiddle to my first though. I'm a major control freak. I took one of those career aptitude tests at school and the results said I'd excel as a dictator."

"You're being sarcastic again, aren't you?"

"Guilty as charged."

He's not such a bad guy, definite friend material, not that I would really know. I haven't had a real friend in eons. Our conversation is interrupted by a knock on the door. "You don't have any brothers or sisters, do you?" I joke.

It's Ms. Stewart. My disposition immediately hardens. "Linda's not home," I announce.

"I came to see you," she says, pushing forward so I have no choice but to side step and let her in.

Oliver stands, no doubt suffocated by all the tension. He reminds me that we'll be walking to school tomorrow as he shuffles out.

"If you came here looking for an apology," I begin, "I don't have one. You can write me up, give me detention, whatever, I meant what I said. Expletives and all."

"I don't want an apology. I just want to talk. I think we started off on the wrong foot. I don't want things to be awkward between us because one, it would impair our student-teacher relationship, two, you're living with Linda, and three, I really like you. I'm sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable, or made you feel like a charity case. That wasn't my intention at all." She's looking me in the eyes.

I believe every word, but my mulish tendencies rears its ugly head. "Why do you even care? It's a waste of time. I'll probably be transferred to some other place soon. Don't give me that 'I really like you' spiel. I wasn't born yesterday. What is there to like, Ms. Stewart? You've known of my existence for two whole days." Even though the words are coming out of my mouth, I think I know what she means. Besides the palpable electrical currents, there's this weirdly potent natural affinity between us. At first, I thought it was just intense physical attraction, but as I pondered the idea I didn't know what to make of it. I still don't know what to make of it.

I think the question embarrasses her. On some innate level, I know she feels what I feel. It must be absolutely mortifying for Ms. Stewart. I mean, I'm 16—crazy urges are to be expected. She's a legitimate adult, and society expects different things from her, like normalcy and conformity, and an adherence to rules such as keeping thoughts and actions geared towards minors on a strictly platonic basis.

She's trying to formulate a response. Her lips part soundlessly, and her eyes flutter shut. She's rubbing at her temples. I sigh, and interrupt the miserable silence, "Okay. Let's say you don't really pity me, and this whole ordeal was just a titanic misunderstanding, alright?" Consider this an early Christmas present.

"Okay," she agrees. Her eyes radiate thanks.

I stick my hand out to show her that I'm serious. "I'm Lillian Truscott, but I like to go by Lilly."

She takes my hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Lilly. You can call me Ms. Stewart."

We shake, it's slow and the contact lasts longer than it should. My thumb slowly makes circles against her skin. I swear the intimate gesture is involuntary. She bites her lip, and eventually our hands fall apart. "I got a voicemail from Linda this afternoon. I know she won't be home until later. Do you want to come over to my house for dinner?"

My cheeks get hot. It's not a date, I remind myself. "Sure," I shrug, placing a hand over my stomach. "I'm starving."

My eye, the left one, twitches. Ms. Stewart's car is a sexy beast! It's a white Mercedes SLR McLaren. I think I screamed louder than a fan at a Jonas Brothers sighting. I want to run my hands all over the bad boy, and whisper, "Shhh. I'll be gentle," but I'd feel guilty if my undeserving fingers left any smudges. How the hell could she afford this on a teacher's salary? Did she sling drugs on the side? This machine was worth at least half a million dollars. I could hock it and live comfortably for some time. Maybe she lives in a box. Yeah, that's got to be it. I'm satisfied enough with my reasoning to enjoy the ride.

Before long, the car's stopped in front of a property guarded by gates and high hedges. Ms. Stewart reaches towards her sun visor and taps at a clip-on remote control. The automated gates groan as it parts and we're rolling past it, up this incredibly long drive way, and towards a gigantic house, scratch that, mansion. It's the biggest place I've ever seen. Okay, so Ms. Stewart doesn't live in a box. "Holy hell," I grumble. "How can you afford all this? I know teachers don't make good money…" A thought strikes me. "You're not a high end escort, are you?"

She laughs, and blushes, shaking her head adamantly. "No. Of course not!"

"Good," I sigh. My enjoyment factor would have faced a significant decline if her car and luxurious livelihood was the result of laborious, high-priced sex. I shiver in disgust. "Not that you're not attractive enough to be a high end escort," I smile. Score!

She just shakes her head. "Thank you?"

"Yeah." I definitely did good.

The inside of the house is just as impressive as the outside. An animal the size of a pony greets Ms. Stewart at the door. I feel myself let out an, "_Eeeep!_" and jump behind her. I'm more than humiliated by my slip-up, but too afraid of the beast to even think about amending it. He sniffs at my shoe, hot breath ruffling my laces. I weakly edge away. "Jesus, what is that?"

She laughs. "This is Bubba," she scratches the dog behind its ear and encourages me to do the same. "He's a Great Dane, Lilly, not a T-Rex."

"Right." I give it a stiff pat to placate Ms. Stewart, but I shoot her a look to let her know the action is reluctant. "I got bit by a dog when I was 6," I admit. "I kind of loathe them."

"I'm sorry," she breaths, sending the dog off with a stern command. It hesitantly slinks away. Its loping movements remind of a camel.

"Thanks," I grumble. "So, you never answered my question?" She raises an eyebrow, and I elaborate, "About how you can afford all this?" Not that it's really any of my business.

She hesitates, carefully considering her words. "I…," she stops. "Um, well, my last job paid _really_ well." She leaves it at that. I can't help but feel like I'm being hoodwinked, but I let it slide. I know I'll eventually get the facts. I'm annoyingly persistent like that.

After a botched cooking attempt, she sheepishly pulls a couple flyers off the fridge and hands them to me. "I'm sorry," she blushes, scraping scoured veggies off a pan. "I don't usually cook."

"No kidding," I smirk.

We settle on Chinese cuisine. She teaches me how to use chopsticks and we eat right out of the cartons. "Do you live here by yourself?" I ask, fishing out a snow pea pod.

"Just me and Bubba," she confirms.

I play with a napkin, and quickly ask, "Do you have a boyfriend?"

She blushes. "I don't think that's an appropriate question."

I shrug, and cast my eyes down into the carton of lo mein, a little peeved that she won't answer me. I hear her clear her throat, and then a quiet, "No. I don't…" She trails off.

My heart's hammering out a victory cry against my chest.

Ms. Stewart retrieves a fancy crystal glass and a fresh bottle out of her see-through wine refrigerator. She must be an aficionado. I wouldn't be surprised if this place had an extensive wine cellar somewhere. "I hope you don't mind," she asks, and I get the impression she's asking solely out of courtesy. I don't think she has a real interest in my response because she pours herself a decent helping, and takes a drink. It's a long and purposeful swallow, like she's got things on her mind.

"Can I have some?" It's probably a long shot.

She appraises me, and then offers me the glass. I smile my thanks, and take a sip. She watches me drink. Halfway through my third sip, her hand snakes around the glass and yanks it away, nearly staining my shirt. "Hey!" I splutter.

"That's enough." Her expression changes to one I can't make out. "You shouldn't be drinking anyway." She pours herself another generous helping, and stands. "Do you want to watch a movie or something?"

"Sure." She picks up the bottle and leads me to a personal theater on the second floor. It's unreal. There are three short rows of unbelievably comfortable recliner type seats, and a large projection screen.

She puts on a random movie. I don't really mind because I still can't get over how cool this place is. The chairs are so plush and soft. I feel like I'm being cradled in a cloud--a _cummulonimbus _to be exact. I kick back and sink into the seat. An hour into the movie, I start to notice Ms. Stewart's attention is on me. The wine bottle must be nearly empty because she's downed a good number of glasses by now. Her breathing is a little deeper, and her eyes are kind of lidded. I turn my head to look at her. "What?" I ask.

Her eyes stray to my lips, and I feel my hands tightening against the armrest. She quickly turns her gaze away. "Nothing."

The movie ends, but we remain in our seats. "Does this outing make me an official teacher's pet?" I joke.

She laughs a little. "No."

"Do I at least get extra credit?"

She looks disappointed, but when I blink it's gone, replaced by a blank canvass. "Why? Am I that lame? Do you need incentive to hang out with me?" she sighs.

"No way."

"You don't need to say that to make me feel better," she grumbles.

I boldly take her hand. "I don't think you're lame," I assure her.

Her fingers slowly tighten around mine, and I close my eyes at the warmth. When they re-open I'm surprised to find her eyes staring into mine at such close proximity. I can feel her breath tickling my lips. She tucks a strand of my blonde hair behind my ear, and drags her fingers up and down my cheek, and then across my jawline. All I can register is that I've never been more turned on in my life. Her eyes shut, and she tilts her head even closer. I lick my lips, waiting for the hot press of her mouth against mine…

Her ringtone scares the shit out of both of us. She jumps away from me, guilt instantly flooding her features. "It's Linda," she rasps, clearly panicked. She clears her throat, and answers the call.

_No!_ Curse Linda and her crappy timing! I help myself to Ms. Stewart's half empty glass. She catches my move out of the corner of her eye, purses her lips, but allows it. "I'm taking you home," she says as she ends the call. There's a harsh finality to her words.

"But," I protest.

She shakes her head. She doesn't want to hear it. I keep my mouth shut all the way home, figuring that my luck's been stretched enough. Our eyes meet for a second as I climb out of her car, but she doesn't say anything. As soon as the door shuts, she peels out of the driveway and disappears down the street, leaving me with an empty feeling and a serious case of blue balls.


	4. Chapter 4

I snatch an apple on my way out the door. I make sure it's the most symmetrical of the pile. I figure Ms. Stewart might appreciate my flirty humor. I had the sexiest dream last night, and I'm all but dying for that fucking kiss. The way I see it, it's as good as mine. Those pretty lips have got 'Lilly' written all over them.

Oliver's sitting on the front porch with a fist tucked underneath his chin. His eyes are closed and his head's slumping forward. I shut the door loudly, and he stiffens up, looking around. "Morning," I greet.

He looks at me weirdly and yawns, "What's wrong with you?"

I laugh. "Nothing. What could be wrong?"

His eyes narrow. "You seem unusually chipper."

"I can't wake up on the right side of the bed for once? Give me a break," I snort.

I jog down the short steps and head down the road, in the direction of our high school. He catches up with me, and the contents of his school bag jostle noisily with every stride. I've entertained a bi-polar state of mind since last night's events, bouncing from insanely high highs to suicidal lows and Oscar the Grouch in-betweens. Right now, I'm kind of in emotional limbo--it's a real fucking holiday.

My Trig teacher assaults me with math club flyers. He's relentless. I'm tempted to seek refuge beneath my desk and wave a white flag. Oliver leans in towards me as Mr. Sharpton waddles away, and adds his two cents, having heard the entire one-sided conversation, "You should totally join."

"Says captain of the math team," I laugh.

"We happen to be state champions."

"That's nice, Oliver, real nice. It'll look good on your college applications, and probably makes the parentals proud. You're great with figures, right? Let's add a couple. Start with how many times you've been laid, work in how many times you've been invited to a party—I'm not talking about supervised Chex Mix birthday parties either. Multiply that whopping figure by how many times you've actually let your parents down and done something you weren't supposed to do... What do you get?"

His lips have tightened into an almost non-existent line. I continue, "If you're fine with having your mommy write your name on the inside of your underwear, and living in the basement until you're in your 30s, good on you and the rest of the math club geeks. I, on the other hand, like sex, and parties, and living right there on that edge."

"I've had sex," he insists.

"Sure you have."

"I have!"

"Sock puppets don't count."

He huffs and turns around in his seat. I'm ignored for the rest of the class period, but forgiven by the time lunch rolls around. We sit by the football field, stretched out on the sun-warmed bleachers. He pulls out a tin lunch box. It's got Wonder Woman on the cover, in case you're curious. I didn't make a jibe at it, but as soon as he sees my eyes grazing the design, he becomes all self-conscious and spits out a defense, "She's hot."

"I like my women a little more three-dimensional, but if 2D floats your boat then who am I to criticize, you know?

"You like girls?" he asks casually.

"Does it matter?" I'm trying to gauge his stance on the whole gay thing.

He shakes his head. "I believe in tolerance—"

I groan, and climb onto my soap box, "First off, Ollie, tolerance is a nasty word. It denotes putting up with something that you essentially disapprove of. Think of all the bullshit you tolerate in every day life," I pause to let him really mull things over.

He looks real pensive. Pleased that I seem to be getting the point across, I continue, "No one wants to be grudgingly tolerated. What people want is to be _accepted_."

"That makes sense," he says. "I never saw it like that before."

"Consider this session of enlightenment free. The next one's going to cost you."

His mom packed him a sandwich—sans crust, oatmeal raisin cookies, celery sticks, and a juice box. He pokes the straw in and takes a sip. I laugh. The juice box is just too much. Is he 10?

"Do you want half of my sandwich?"

I shake my head. My nerves are too jittery to hold anything down.

I'm pacing in front of my Theater class, vigorously shining the perfect apple I've been lugging around all day. The warning bell rings, and I quickly find a seat. I lick my lips, and tap my foot on the ground to the beat of my erratic pulse. The late bell's about to ring, and Ms. Stewart is still nowhere in sight. My stomach's clenching like crazy, wondering when she'll show up. I glance around uneasily, scanning the door to the left and then the door to the right. The bell wails, and there she is, flying into the room in precise synchrony. She looks a little frazzled. Her eyes seem tired and her usual burst of energy is defunct. I look down at the apple in my hand, and safely tuck it inside my bag. I decide to save my special presentation for after school.

She avoids making eye contact with me for the duration of the period. She's been shying away from any and all forms of direct interaction, even deliberately ignoring my raised hand. _Seriously?_ I walk away from our activity circle and take a seat in the back row. A couple kids stare at me, whispering, "What is she doing?" Everyone stops to assess the situation.

Ms. Stewart has no choice but to address me. If she doesn't enforce her authority, a couple things could happen… A) kids will get suspicious and start crying preferential treatment, B) word will get around that Ms. Stewart is a big softy and she'll lose the respect of the student body, and C) in the event anyone else is scolded, it'd give them a cause to whine about fairness. "Lillian," she sighs. _I told you so_. "Will you please re-join the circle?"

That 'Lillian' stings. It's what strangers call me. I kick my feet up on the chair in front of me. "I kind of don't feel like it," I shrug. "Don't worry. I'll learn by observation. You guys just carry on."

I hear gasps and more muted chatter. Ms. Stewart folds her arms across her chest. "If you don't re-join the circle, I'll write you up."

"I think that's entirely uncalled for," I sigh. "But whatever, do what you must."

She stiffly walks over to her desk, and takes out a pad of referral slips. She rips one sheet off and goes to town. The dismissal bell rings, and most of my peers are slow in leaving. They want to know what's going to happen, and I don't blame them. "Stay right there," instructs Ms. Stewart, never taking her eyes off the paper she's filling out.

The last guy in gives me a wink. "Hang in there," he whispers as he shuffles through the door.

I gather my backpack. Fuck this. I'm not into hot and cold games. Those types of charades are typically reserved for pubescent teenagers, so sue me if I thought Ms. Stewart would act a little more age appropriate. "I said stay right there," she growls, slapping her hand down on the desk. It echoes in my ears as I leave. Give me a referral, shit, give me eight!

I spot Oliver in the hallway, intent on canceling our walk home. I need some extended alone time. He nods empathetically, and informs me that he's got some official math club business to attend to. I wish him luck, and we agree to meet up tomorrow.

I don't feel like heading home so I take a detour. Technically, I don't know where the fuck I'm going, but this town isn't exactly hard to figure out. I could easily walk ten steps in one direction and find myself back at the Hammleys'. The wind picks up and brushes across my face, carrying a gust of the atmosphere's rich, earthy smell. It's nice. I decide that I prefer the country's scents over the city's. The city either smells too manufactured, neutral, or downright fucking gross, like compost heaps and those drunken bums that sit next to you on the public bus.

My stomach grumbles a complaint, and I consider eating Ms. Stewart's apple. Luckily, there's a diner up ahead. It's small, and has a shiny aluminum exterior. I guess I can splurge this once. I'm the only patron inside the place. I balance myself on one of the swivel stools at the counter, and a blonde haired guy comes up to me. His uniform is probably one of the goofiest ones I've ever seen, and I tell him that.

"Gee, thanks," he laughs, handing me a menu. "On the bright side, I like to think of myself as a living, breathing PSA campaign. See, kid, stay in school."

I laugh. "It works. Is it a non-profit PSA or does the government pay you extra?"

"I do it out of the kindness of my heart, of course," he scoffs. "The name's Jackson and if you haven't guessed already, I'll be your waiter."

I glance through the menu, and settle on a cheeseburger and a glass of water. Jackson brings out my order in no time. It has all the elements of a great diner burger, enough grease to clog arteries, and more width than my hands can handle. I take a bite out of it, and ketchup squelches out the sides. I realize just how hungry I am. "Slow down," urges Jackson. "You didn't sign the waiver, so if you die, we're liable for you."

I manage to flip him off as I take another bite. He mouths a thanks. I love personable waiters. It makes the dining-out experience that much better. Jackson's got a fat tip coming to him.

The door opens behind me, but I pay it no mind. "Hey, Miles," I hear Jackon say. "You look like hell. What did daddy tell you about all-nighters? And how come I wasn't invited?"

"Can it, doughnut." It's Ms. Stewart, and for the umpteenth time, I'm thinking that this town is too fucking small. I drop the burger on the plate, appetite forgotten. "Hey, Lilly," she says this part softer, like maybe she knows she fucked up and is a little bit sorry.

"Miley, you know this darling burst of sunshine?" gasps Jackson. He's talking about me.

I wipe my face, and toss the napkin on the plate. "Thanks, Jackson. Can I get my tab?" I'm going to show Ms. Stewart that I can play games too.

He hands me the bill, and I count out the money, along with that big tip, and lay it out on the counter. "Thanks again. This place is great. Maybe I'll come back sometime."

"You do that," he nods.

Ms. Stewart stands in front of the door. "Lilly?" she repeats.

I brush past her, and our shoulders bump together harshly. I feel her wince, but don't apologize.

I don't know how long I've been walking, but I'm glad my backpack is light today. I don't know when I'll go back home. Maybe I won't. Maybe I'll just stop in to pick up some stuff and hitch-hike somewhere more interesting, like New York. A car pulls up beside me. I don't have to look at it to know that it's Ms. Stewart's, call it intuition. "Do you need a ride?" she asks. I quicken my steps, but the car effortlessly rolls alongside me.

I keep my head trained forward. "Lilly, please," she begs. It makes me feel bad for a second, but I remind myself that I don't owe her a goddamned thing. "I'm sorry," she bursts. "I'm sorry for treating you the way that I did today. I don't blame you if you think I'm a bitch…"

"Good," I stop walking to look directly at her. Her eyes are glistening with unshed tears. "Because I do think you're a bitch." Ha. Take that!

She blinks and brings a hand up to her forehead. "I deserved that. Will you please get in?"

"Fine," I huff. "I'm over walking anyway."

"Do you want to go back to Linda's?" she asks.

"No. Fuck that place."

She bites her lip. "I'll call her and tell her you're with me. That way she won't be worried sick."

"Fine."

I'm sitting on a couch in her informal living room. The formal one, she informs me, is mostly for show, and reserved for stuffy acquaintances. She's sitting in an overstuffed club chair across from me. Her legs are crossed. The position makes her skirt hike up a little, exposing more of her gorgeous legs. As soon as we got inside, she retrieved a bottle of wine and a glass from the kitchen. I haven't spoken a word to her since the car. "Are you an alcoholic?" I ask, partly curious, but mostly joking.

"No," she smiles. "I don't drink regularly. Sometimes, when I really need to unwind, I'll have a few glasses."

"You could have fooled me."

She bites her lip. I know she's contemplating something out-of-character. "Do you want a glass?" Ah ha.

"I thought you were opposed to underage drinking?" I say, recalling the way she had snatched the glass right out of my hand.

She rolls her eyes. "Do you want a glass or not?"

"Sure."

She gets up, and I watch her legs and ass move until I can't see her anymore. She comes back with another wine glass. She fills it, and hands it to me. "Thanks," I mutter.

We settle in a comfortable silence, each sipping at our respective drinks. "Where are your parents?" she asks me.

Unexpected much? I don't really mind the question. I've recounted the details time and time again. Coming to terms with my life circumstances was inevitable. I, unlike the vast majority, just chose to do it sooner than later.

"My Dad's in jail," I start. "And my Mom's dead." I know she's going to ask, so I save her the effort. "He and Mom were career junkies. They spent all our welfare checks on smack and meth, even traded food stamps for the shit. One day, Dad screws over a hotshot dealer. The guy comes over with two of his goons, but Dad's not home. They start roughing Mom up, spitting on her, slapping her, cocking their guns at her face. One of them comes over to me and puts the barrel to my forehead. I-I know what he wants. I was only 7, but I could tell. The way he was looking at me made my skin crawl. Mom knew it too because she begged him to leave me alone. She swore up and down she'd do anything if they left me alone, and they did. They tossed me in the closet, and for fuck knows how long, they're in there, with her. All I hear is c-crying, and yelling, and laughing, and then it goes quiet. Dad finally comes home. He starts calling her a whore. I hear him h-hitting her, breaking things. He's always had a horrible temper. At that point, she's begging him to stop, but he never listens. He opens the closet door, and drags me out by my hair. He broke my arm, three of my ribs, fractured my skull. I passed out at some point. I found out that he, um, k-killed my Mom, strangled her with a belt. My old social worker told me that when the cops found me, they thought I was dead. She said I was the smallest 7 year old she'd ever seen, 40 lbs underweight. They arrested Dad a few days later for trying to buy smack off an undercover cop."

I finish my drink, and look up at Ms. Stewart. She's crying. Her cheeks are slick with tears. They're dripping off her face and onto her blouse. "I'm _so_ sorry," she whispers. She looks emotionally drained.

"Zero points for originality," I say. This is the worst part of telling anyone. The pity, the undue remorse, the crying, the obligatory hugs and kisses. I really fucking hate it. "Can we just skip this part?" I plead.

She gets me, because she just nods, and wipes the moisture off her face.

We drink some more. I'm getting a lovely buzz. Ms. Stewart seems pretty buzzed too. Her eyes are kind of glassy and her giggles are lighter. She excuses herself to grab a second bottle. "So, Jackson's your brother?" I ask. The thought had completely slipped my mind.

"Yep." She's concentrating on getting that second bottle open.

"Are you two close?"

"Really close."

"Does your mom live here too?"

"My mom died when I was little. Cancer."

"Oh," I'm fiddling with my glass stem. "Your dad seems nice."

She smiles. "He is."

"What does he do?"

She bends over to re-fill my glass, and I get a nice, unintentional view of her cleavage. I swallow down the lump in my throat. "He's a songwriter," she says, sitting down beside me. "He used to manage musical talent, but his main focus lately has been songwriting."

"Neat." I can feel her body heat. I want to lean into it. "So," I breathe, trying to distract myself from doing anything rash, "Who has he managed? Would I know any of them?"

She bites her lip. "Um. He used to manage Hannah Montana."

"Are you serious? I used to love her! I had this poster of her once, well, a tear-out from a magazine. I ripped it out at the newspaper stand and ran 10 blocks 'cause the vendor saw me and threatened to call the cops," I laugh, "I used to sleep with it under my pillow. I guess you could say I had a teeny bopper infatuation."

She starts coughing. "Are you okay?" I ask.

She nods her head. I pick up the conversation once I'm convinced she's not going to choke to death. "Whatever happened to Hannah Montana? I bet you have the ultimate insider's scoop," I gush.

"You have no idea," she smiles. "Um, I guess she just got tired of it. I think that she wanted to experience life as a normal person."

"Do you think she'll ever have a come back? Like Madonna or Britney?"

She laughs. "I don't know… maybe."

"Why don't you have a boyfriend?" Man, I'm just full of questions tonight.

Ms. Stewart frowns. "What do you mean?"

"You're smart, and beautiful, and funny. Not to mention loaded." Okay, so the last part's a joke, well not really, but you get what I mean.

She blushes at my matter-of-factness. "I'm just not interested," she finally says.

"Good answer." I realize that I don't know how old she is. I pegged her as being no more than 25, but she could be one of those genetically gifted people. I ask her.

She smiles. "23. I graduated high school early, and accumulated most of my college credits through CLEP exams."

"Cool." Hell, 7 years is not a bad age difference at all. "You're only 7 years older than me," I say, figuring that verbalizing it would make her feel better.

I feel her wince, and I think that maybe my calculation is wrong. I sigh, and collapse my weight against the backrest. I'm ready to call it a night. The air becomes unusually still, and then I feel her hand on my knee. The warmth is searing, and I shiver. I bite my lip and keep my eyes clamped shut, scared that she'll stop if I react. Ms. Stewart leans in and presses her face against my neck. Her other hand comes to rest on my side, just over my ribcage, but it soon dips down and crawls across my stomach, making me tense up. I can't help but moan. "Lilly," she whispers. Her voice is husky and raw as her warm mouth rubs against my pulse point.

I'm shuddering and willing my body to stop. I think I'm holding my breath. The hand on my knee starts making tight little circles. Ms. Stewart suddenly trails her fingers higher, stroking my upper thigh. My breath leaves me in a hiss. "Lilly," she says again, "I want to kiss you."

My body springs back to life at her desire drenched words. I bring my mouth against hers, _hard_. There's nothing sweet about this kiss. It's hot, and fast, and knocks the fucking wind out of me. I quickly straddle her. My legs are spread across her lap, and my knees are on either side of hers. I'm pushing against her as we kiss and she's pushing back. I feel her moan into my mouth, and it turns me on even more. My tongue's massaging hers, and we're fighting for dominance. I win, and gently suck on her tongue before biting down on her bottom lip. I break the kiss, and we're both gasping for breath. Her lips are beautifully swollen, and my center is throbbing.

I want more of her.

I look her in the eyes as my hands play at the hem of her blouse, and slowly slide underneath so they're resting along her bare skin. My hands push up and down her sides, and then rest over her chest. I hear her gasp.

Her bra's unclasped now. I've pulled her shirt and bra up over her breasts. "You're beautiful," I say. It's true. Her stomach is flat and taut, and her breasts are perky and perfectly rounded. They fit in my hands so well. I kiss her neck, shoulder, collar bone… lower, until my lips are wrapped around her hard nipple.

"God," she hisses. Her hands go to the back of my head. Her fingers tangle in my hair, and tug my lips more firmly against her chest. "_Lilly_…" I swear I'm dripping right through my jeans.

Two seconds later, and I'm being shoved on the floor. My ass hits the wood with a loud thud. Surprise is an understatement. "Ow," I groan, looking up at her. "What the hell?"

She yanks her shirt back down, and runs a hand through her rumpled hair. "I—I--," she stammers. "I can't do this. I'm taking you home. Now."

"Jesus, Ms. Stewart! Do you have like multiple personalities or something? I'm not going home. Besides, I smell like a boozer and Linda will tan both our hides."

"Fine. You can spend the night, but I'm driving you home first thing in the morning," she sighs. "And don't think that we'll be sleeping in the same bed!"

I roll my eyes. "Oh, get over yourself 'cause I am!" _Sort of._


	5. Chapter 5

I can't sleep. The room is daffodil yellow. The carpet is a soft, cream colored shag that makes your feet feel like they're gliding over herds of sheep. I'm lying in a four-poster bed. It's made out of cherry wood and has got this annoyingly comfortable double pillow top mattress. I had to move a million decorative pillows off the thing before I could get in. I've never seen that many decorative pillows on one bed--I could have built a full-scale pyramid. I'm wearing my shirt and panties. The rest of my clothes are strung over the bedside chair.

I fluff my pillow amidst all the tossing and turning. I wonder if Ms. Stewart is fairing any better? I get this nagging desire to check on her, but choose to heed her warnings instead.

I don't know when it happens, but the door creaks open. It's useless trying to make out the intruder because it's pitch black so I just stay stock-still. I mean, it's either Ms. Stewart, Bubba, or a robber, and judging from the ridiculous security measures set up around this place and its perimeters, no remotely half-brained crook would even dream of it. The left side of the bed depresses with added weight. "Are you awake?" whispers Ms. Stewart.

"Wide. Did you have a nightmare?" I joke.

She sighs. "I can't sleep…"

"What the hell happened to not sleeping in the same bed? You practically threatened my life."

"You're exaggerating."

I have a better one. "You're a hypocrite."

She can't possibly refute the statement because she knows it to be true, and her silence is a ringing acknowledgment. I bet Ms. Stewart feels real smart right now. Another point for Lilly! _Rah rah._ Vindication is an intoxicating feeling. I almost want to break out into an off-key rendition of that Dashboard Confessional song. Before I can rub it in any further, Ms. Stewart kisses me. It takes some iron resolve to push her away. "No," I say. I hope my voice is firm and unwavering. "I'm not doing this with you. I'm sick of getting yanked around. You want me one minute; you're launching me across the room the next. I've got some self-respect, you know." Go me! That act alone has got to do wonders for my maturity level, right? Move over, adolescence--adulthood, here I come!

She tries to kiss me again, but I turn my head. Her mouth lands on my neck. Ms. Stewart climbs on top of me. Her bare legs rub against mine. I'm too weak to stop her this time, but I hope my lack of movement speaks volumes. I refuse to play the role of willing participant. "I need…," she rasps.

Her lips are slowly moving against my neck. She licks it, dragging the tip of her tongue across my skin. Her mouth begins a wet, leisurely suck. I can tell there's going to be a mark there. "I need to," she breathes, nuzzling her face against my shoulder, and shifting her body so that one of my legs is resting snugly between her thighs. At that moment I realize that she wants to come.

I gasp because her panties are hot and wet against my bare leg. It's dizzying. "_Lilly_… I _need_ to…" she's asking for permission to use me like some multipurpose masturbatory tool. I can't believe the selfish audacity of this woman! After the way she's been acting, the last thing she deserves is gratification! I don't understand why she doesn't just sleep with me. I guess this way makes her feel less guilty. "_Please?_"

Her urgency sells me. God, am I cheap.

I grab hold of her ass and push her down against my leg. She moans into my neck and starts thrusting her hips, grinding and rubbing her wetness against me in a slow delicious rythm. I feel her center sliding up and down my thigh… throbbing… sticky with liquid heat. My hands grip her tighter, shoving her hips down harder. She's gasping and moaning in my ear. The sensual rocking quickens into a frantic rhythm. The way she's thrusting into me is bruising. I feel myself panting with her. I wish I could see her face...

"_Lilly_," she groans. I know she's about to come. Her breaths appear in ragged bursts, and she's making these sexy, fucking blissful sounds. She presses her damp forehead against mine. Our moans and throttled pants blend together. I'm tense with anticipation.

I feel her body stiffen, and the way she cries my name is almost pained. She collapses on my chest, limp and sweaty. Her heart is thudding like crazy. She must be falling asleep because she doesn't say anything. My eyes sting with tears as I lay there, feeling used and unsatisfied. _So much for self-respect, huh, Lilly? _I tell my inner voice to shut the fuck up and squeeze my eyes tight, begging for sleep to whisk me away to some numbing landscape.

I wake up early. Ms. Stewart is snuggled against me looking beautiful, and all I can think of doing is getting as far away from her as possible. I quietly toss my clothes on, grab my backpack and escape. I run home. I unlock the door with my set of keys, careful not to let them jingle too much.

The water is on the hottest setting it'll go. I'm purging all traces of Ms. Stewart from my flesh. It's hot enough to make my skin a glowing sun-burnt color. I'm not going to school today. I'll play the sick card, and if Linda's not swayed by my act, I'll just skip it.

Linda buys my performance. She looks legitimately concerned. I spend half of the morning watching shitty day-time television, and eating ice cream out of the pint. I've found that each spectrum of misery evokes a unique counteraction. Sometimes I can't sleep, eat, breath for the life of me, and other times I'm left with this desperate hankering for instant gratification. With no drugs or prospects of meaningless sexual entanglements within my reach, I settle for sugary snacks and a couple beers. For a while, I hope Mark doesn't notice, but then I realize that I don't like Mark.

For the remainder of the week, I skip Theater. The school never contacts Linda about my unexcused absences, and I'm not exactly surprised. I'm sure Ms. Stewart purposefully failed to notify the attendance office. If Linda knew, questions would be asked, suspicions would arise, and allegations would be made, giving way to investigations and press feeding frenzies, etc. Student-teacher affairs are no longer shocking rarities, I know. But they're marketable, and a same sex student-teacher affair would be icing on the cake of broadcast journalism.

Unfortunately, Mark resurfaced from the depths of his job conference hell yesterday morning, and all hints of Linda's personality have vanished. In order to avoid the Hammley creepfest, I spent yesterday afternoon on a solitary exploratory hike. Ms. Stewart hasn't been by, although I did overhear Linda talking to her on the phone about something totally insignificant and equally uninteresting.

Ollie and I are laid out on a checkered picnic blanket by the lake. He swore me to secrecy before leading me to this secluded clearing. A couple people are out on boats and jet skis. I roll onto my back and look at the lush treetops and carefree clouds. Oh, to be a cloud…

"What's wrong?" he asks me. He's been asking that same question since Wednesday. It's weird how he can read my funky dispositions as plain as a mood ring. I think we're soul mates, you know, the platonic kind.

Every time he asks, it chips away at my resolve. I've never really confided in anyone before. "Can you keep a secret?" I whisper.

"Of course."

"I'm serious. You can't tell anyone, not even if you make them promise not to tell anyone. This is big."

"Yeah, of course." I study his soulful brown eyes, and steadily believe him.

"Ms. Stewart and I have this thing," I start. Tactless, I know. Brain, where are you?

"Thing?" His eyes widen. "A _thing_ thing?"

"Yeah..."

Oliver slowly laughs. "She's hot, Lilly. Good for you."

"Not really," I sit up and angrily pick at the grass. "It's complicated. We've been avoiding each other since Wednesday, and that's why I've been in such a shitty mood."

He nods, beckoning me to continue.

I guess I should begin with some history. "There was this chemistry between us from the start," I sigh. "Don't ask me how or why because I can't even explain it… A couple days ago I was at her house, things got heated, and then _boom_! I'm being tossed on my ass like dirty laundry. She freaked out, told me we couldn't do anything, and sent me to bed. In the middle of the night, she came crawling into my room, can you fucking believe that? I tried to resist, but ended up giving her what she wanted, which left me totally… blue balled, but more than that..." I close my eyes. "She treated me like a cheap commodity, Oliver. I have never felt so used in my fucking life. I don't know what she thinks about me, or this whole fucked up situation. We've never really talked about it, you know? I'm just sick of her psycho act and bullshit indecisiveness."

He digests the information before offering some insight. "I see where you're coming from... At the same time, I see where she's coming from."

"Hey! Just whose side are you on?" I feel my face sour.

He holds up his hand to silence the onslaught of objections. "Wait a minute, Lilly, hear me out, alright? She's a teacher, an adult. You're a minor, not to mention her student. Don't you think she's scared? She's only got everything to lose. The worst thing that you'd get out of anyone finding out is mandatory therapy, hoards of sympathy and a victim label. She'll lose her job, friends, family, respect, her life, her identity, and gain a couple things too, like a prison sentence, maybe even a prestigious plaque in the sex offender registry. Do you understand where I'm going with this?" The balance of weightiness and sarcasm strikes a chord.

I broaden my mind to his reasoning, and my problems instantly shrink like a wool sweater. "Alright," I huff. "But she's in the wrong for pulling crazies on me!"

He smiles. "Still holding on, eh?"

"Shut up." I throw a handful of grass at him. The flimsy blades scatter in the wind. "Thank you."

After another one of Oliver's pep talks, I walk over to Ms. Stewart's house unannounced. I left all my shit with Oliver. I'm wearing a bikini top, board shorts, and flip-flops. Everything, including my hair, is still damp from our swim. I get this nice crisp feeling every time the wind picks up, like I'm walking through a water mister spritz.

I stand in front of her gate, wondering how the fuck I'll manage to get in, when I notice a discreet little callbox. I lift the cover, and press the dial-in button. It rings, and rings, and rings, and then a guy's voice answers, "Hello?"

Jealousy grips me.

"Hello?" _he_ repeats.

"Is, um, Ms. Stewart, um…I," the words are painful to get out. I feel like I've been knocked on my ass again. Suddenly, I feel sick. "Nevermind," I croak.

My legs get me out of there fast. It's not long before the sick feeling lets up, and something worse takes its place: the realization of my stupidity. It's all I can think about on my way back home.


	6. Chapter 6

It turns out that my first realization was just a precursor. Stupidity brought some of its friends along for the scenic ride turned car wreck: naivety, embarrassment, resentment, self-deprecation—just to name a few--you might have heard of them? I actually thought that Ms. Stewart and I had something substantial… something more than a slip of sanity or confused sexual fumble. I thought we could have had a relationship. A relationship! I hear myself laughing. _God, Lilly, you really need to get your head out of your ass._ Thanks for the late memo, reason.

Depression is an absolute bitch to shake, like Jaws on an exceptionally beefy human hamstring. I'm at the dinner table with my head hung low. I've been rearranging the contents of my plate for the past 20 minutes. I call it art. I got sent home today for telling my annoying Trig teacher where he could shove his competitive math club flyers.

Mark's angry. His face can't get any redder. I've watched it go from a barely there pink to a bright Maybelline rouge. "You're grounded," he announces right after a mouthful of peas, catching both me and Linda off guard.

"Cool," is all I say. Honestly, I'm too busy feeling like shit to care about some lame disciplinary attempt or his even lamer power trip.

"For one month."

"Loving it."

His fist slams on the table. "What the hell's wrong with you?" he growls.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" I counter.

"If you were my blood, I swear to God—"

"Mark," interrupts Linda. "Calm down."

"You swear to God you'd do what, Mark? Say it!" I'm up and posturing across the table.

"Go to your room," he barks. He springs up on his feet for good measure. He's trying hard to intimidate me. It's not working.

"I'm going to my room because I can't stand you, not because you told me to," I clarify.

There's a whirl of commotion faster than I can process, and a stinging pain on my cheek from where Mark's hand slaps me. Linda gasps, and Mark's panting like a hungry dog that's been given a taste of dinner scraps. I feel my eyes burning with irate tears and I want to scratch his beady eyes out, but I don't. Been there, done that with a past foster parent. The asshole called the cops and before I knew it, I was being charged with assault. No one believed me when I said it was out of retaliatory defense. My foster mom and foster siblings didn't vouch for me, too afraid of the consequences his sadistic hands would have dealt. I don't blame them. "I hope that made you feel better, Mark," I say.

I lock myself in my bedroom. There's yelling and loud shuffling downstairs. Finally, a door slams shut and there's quiet.

Linda knocks at my door, but I don't answer. She says she's sorry. She says Mark didn't mean it. She hopes I can trust them. She begs me to open the door. I just stay on the bed with my knees tucked against my body, and my chin perched on my knee. She lingers, but goes away eventually.

I close my eyes just for a second, but I guess it's been longer than that because when I open them again they're heavy with the remnants of sleep. There's someone at my door again. I can see their shadow seeping under the crack. "Go away, Linda," I hear myself rasp. "Can't I have some fucking privacy? I need some sleep if my gig as the Hammley punching bag is going to be a regular thing."

"It's me," answers Ms. Stewart.

My anger intensifies. "You can go to hell too!"

"Lilly, please let me in. Linda called me and told me what happened. Are you okay?"

"What the hell do you care?" I burst. "Shouldn't you be more worried about your boyfriend?"

"Boyfriend?" The confusion in her voice is almost bankable.

"I went to your house earlier," I explain, intent on tripping her up with hardcore evidence, "And some guy answered…" Her reaction is laughter. The honeycomb sweetness is contagious, and I hate her for it. "What's so damn funny?"

"That guy that you assumed was my boyfriend--," she pauses to giggle some more. "That was just Jackson. He came over to pick something up, and then we had lunch."

Jackson… _Oh, God!_ Jackson! The rush of relief is dizzying. The humor sledgehammers me and I laugh until my stomach cramps. When I open the door for her, I keep my gaze on the tops of my shoes. I'm mortified at the ass-like spectacle I've made of myself. Her fingers push my chin up so that I'm looking her in the eyes. "I-I thought," I mumble, licking my lips. "I thought… I don't know what I thought."

She steps into the room and wraps me up in a hug. It's overwhelming and I can't help but squeeze my eyes shut, reveling in everything I was so sure I'd lost. "It's okay," she coos. "It's okay."

We sit down on my bed, and she brushes a fingertip over the cheek Mark played one-sided pattycake with. It hurts, and I wince a little. "There's a bruise," she whispers. "I'm so sorry, Lilly."

I shrug, trying to fluff up the vibe. "I'm alright. It's whatever."

"No. It's not," she insists. She looks heated. If I were Mark, I'd crap my pants.

"Fine. Then it's not. _Whatever._ Can we talk about something else?"

"I—"

"Please?"

She sighs and I know that she's about to give in. "Alright."

She settles onto her back, and I wordlessly nestle against her side with my face tucked against the crook of her shoulder, and my leg draped over hers. My hand's just under her shirt. I let my fingers stroke her smooth stomach. The skin tenses and raises with goose bumps under my ministrations. She's playing with my hair, gently petting it, twirling it around her finger. My chest is heaving under the force of a zillion lung-crushing emotions.

_Something's_ got to give.

"I'm sorry about the other night," she whispers. The utterance is so soft I'm not sure it's real, but then I hear her again, "I acted very inappropriately." My body stiffens involuntarily, and I know she can feel the tension. She pushes past it with the weight of more whispered words, "I don't know what this thing is between us, but it's big," she sighs. "Lilly, you have to understand that I've never felt this way, or even dreamed of ever feeling this way. I've killed myself looking for a rational explanation, you know, a missing piece of logic that I might have accidentally overlooked." She laughs almost sardonically as she says the next part, "Honestly, I would have even settled for a clear-cut marker of insanity… But every search lead to the same conclusion… there is none. I _can't_ rationalize with _this_," she pushes my hand over her chest. The beat is strong and steady and washes over me like a warm gust. We shift so we're nose to nose now. "I'm scared," she admits.

"Me too," I rasp.

She bites her lip, and I lean in close and then closer until our lips touch. It's a delicate press, like we're mutually afraid that the other one is going to crumble, but the feathery kiss is drenched with more passion than I can wrap my head around. "You're not going to toss me on the floor again, are you?" I kid.

She laughs, shakes her head and pulls me in for another kiss. This one's hungrier, like we haven't seen each other in years and we're trying our damnedest to reacquaint our greedy lips. At some point throughout what could possibly qualify as the world's longest kiss, she peels my bra and top off. For the first time, I feel her hands wandering along my skin, gently squeezing my naked breasts. My stomach quivers unsteadily and I'm shaking like a virgin. She seems to think so too because she pulls back to ask, almost sheepishly, "Is this your first time?"

"God no," I laugh. I don't mean for it to come out so crude, and I'm about to tell her that, but she just kisses me again.

Her fingers pop open my tight jeans and it's a combined effort to tug them off. She stands back and openly stares at me, brushing her gaze up and down my body, lingering over my chest and legs, and the heat just beneath my panties. I feel self-conscious all of the sudden. I know there's a blush working its way across my face, and I almost want to tug the blanket over myself, but the way she's looking at me, with fire in her eyes, turns me on.

Just when I think I can't take it anymore she unzips her skirt and steps out of it; her cute blouse goes next. I don't expect it when she drops onto her knees, or crawls over to me to rest her head on my lap. She's saying something, but all I can hear is the sound of my pulse hammering madly, and my own labored breathing. I guess it doesn't matter that I didn't hear her because she's kissing and nipping at my legs, my delicate inner thighs, close and closer to my wetness. The teasing doesn't last long, and I'm glad it doesn't. She bites me once, twice through my panties, and then pushes them aside to lick the throbbing flesh underneath. I feel her tongue swirling around inside of me, and my hands are clenching at the sheets. I hear myself mutter, "Fuck."

I look down at her to find her eyes staring up at me. "God…" I pant. Her tongue trails up until it strokes over my clit, again and again… until my hands are tangled in her hair, and I'm careening over the edge.

She climbs on top of my body and rests her head against my chest. "I'm sorry," she says.

For what? For making me come so hard I forgot my name? Is she crazy? "For what?" My voice is hoarse.

"For being impatient. For rushing it," she pouts. "I couldn't wait… do you know how long I've been thinking about doing… _that_?" Her words get husky. "I promise next time I'll go _much_ more _slowly_." Her lips find mine and our kiss is unhurried, lazy and gorgeous. The franticness is lost, or quieted to a subtle undertone.

Ms. Stewart keeps her promise until, sated, exhausted and entirely too lightheaded, we succumb to sleep.

Crisis is a two-way street; depending on your flip of the coin you either escape as the victor, or you lose as quickly as _bam_, so shit out of luck you're staggering for days, months, years. In the event of the former, you've got a nifty token to tuck away inside your memory box for a good-natured laugh whenever you see fit. The latter just shatters you.

For us, me and Ms. Stewart that is, crisis came knocking at 8:43 in the morning. "Lilly, it's Mark. Can I come in? I'm sorry about last night," he says. Before I can answer or even rub the grogginess out of my eyes, the door knob rustles and Mark pushes inside my bedroom.

His eyes are wide as pie plates and rife with confusion. His brows keep furrowing and unfurrowing. He's looking at me, and then at her, as if the simple gesture will answer all the questions reeling in his head.

I say the three words that come most naturally to anyone in a panic, "I can explain…"

"What the hell is going on here?" he yells, loud enough to wake Ms. Stewart, who makes a pained noise and tugs the blankets closer to her body. "No one's going to start talking? That's okay because soon enough the police are going to be here, and someone's going to talk."

"Mark, no! Please!" that's me, begging, at the brink of tears. "Please don't…"

He shakes his head. "I have to. Whatever _this_ is," he waves his hands around, a disgusted sneer fixed on his face, "is not right, by way of the law, by way of the Bible, by way of nature. It makes me sick…" He doesn't bother shutting the door after he leaves.

"You have to run," I tell Ms. Stewart, a new tightness in my chest. "You have to go. Right now."

She shakes her head. "Lilly. What good is that going to do? They'll just find me, and then I'll be worse off."

"At least we would have tried to do something. To fight it. They're going to take us away from each other! Don't you even care?"

She pulls me in for a hug, but I shove her away. She's persistent and before long, I'm sobbing against her shoulder. "Please," I sniffle.

"It'll be okay, Lilly," she whispers.

"Promise me." I feel her tears dripping onto my face, mixing in with mine.

"I can't…"


	7. Chapter 7

The cops came and ripped her away from me--it's all I could think for a while. I'm a horrible person, right? Grossly selfish? I mean, after everything was said and done she was the one carted off in unsympathetic cuffs and touted on every news outlet with a pulse from here to Bangladesh. Soon after headlines broke, the foster care system was berated for not keeping closer track on me and, desperate to take some heat off their backs, promptly moved my ass back to California where I was confined to a group home.

I tried to keep up with the trial but I was forbidden from magazines, papers and news channels while therapists and social workers tried to gauge the fragility of my mental state. They tried to convince me that Ms. Stewart had brainwashed me, taken advantage of my "worldly inexperience". At first, I unwaveringly denied their claims and suppositions, but realized my denial only confirmed the convoluted theories in their heads. I kept quiet and let them think whatever the hell they wanted to because, I reasoned, my truth didn't need their validation. It was enough for me to know.

Eventually, all the protective measures let up, and I was allowed to go back to a regular school, and even contact Oliver. I remember our first telephone conversation.

"Lilly?" he'd answered. "Is that really you? I thought I'd never get to speak to you again. I missed you." His laugh comforted me, brought me back to a time where life wasn't so strained and unfamiliar, and Ms. Stewart was just a walk away.

"Me too…"

"Hey, listen, I didn't get to say this sooner because no one would tell me where you went… I'm sorry about everything that happened."

"Yeah," I croaked. "I miss her, Ollie. These fucking Nazis won't tell me anything. Not a peep. I tried to explain it to them, but they won't listen. What happened to her?"

"She got half a year of house arrest and a year and a half of probation. The town's been saying that she must have had damn good lawyers."

"Hey, the Nazis are trying to eavesdrop. I'll call you in a few days, okay?"

I didn't cause too much trouble throughout the remainder of my high school career. I was accepted into NYU, and after graduation, I packed what little shit I had into the used car I'd invested solid hours of blood, sweat and tears into purchasing, and drove cross country. I guess the only plus of being a ward of the state is that the government pays full-ride for its wards' college educations. Oliver got into NYU too, and we rented a rathole one bedroom apartment with four other people in the seedier part of the city. After one semester of that, we decided we were better off in the dorms, and elected to part ways for more sanitary living conditions.

And here I am. My roommate, Chloe, is a good kid; timid, studious and clean. I can't say how annoying it is that she habitually wakes up at 5 in the fucking morning to blast soothing nature tapes and perform her bland Yoga routine. I can't say that she wears a promise ring, but spends at least one night a week—usually the night before I'm scheduled to take a big test--keeping me up with her loud-as-a-jackhammer vibrator and the chicken squawk moans she calls an orgasm. I can't say all those things and more because she let's me use her mini-fridge. So I don't, and I won't.

I push my way into my dorm room. Chloe's seated on her bed, but I know pretty soon she'll be up with a napkin and a hand sanitizer pump, polishing away at the door knob. That's another one of those things I can't mention, her insane OCD rituals. Anytime someone touches the door knob, she's got to scour the damn thing clean. I swear the varnish is peeling off, but whatever, it's not like I have to pay for a repair.

"Hey," she greets. "Someone slipped this," she holds up an envelope with my name on it," under the door. No knock or anything."

"It's probably just Oliver," I dismiss, snatching the envelope away. "Thanks."

Chloe smiles and gets up to polish the knob. I shake my head and tear into the envelope. There are two tickets inside. For a Hannah Montana concert. I feel myself snickering. "No way. Hannah Montana concert tickets? It's got to be a gag. She's been gone for years."

Chloe squeals and rips the tickets out my hands to inspect them. "Oh my God! Front row seats!" She slaps my arm. "Where have you been, Lilly? Don't you watch TV or read magazines?"

"Uh, no. I have better things to do with my time. They're called reports and required reading, and midterms, and two jobs."

"Well, Hannah Montana _is_ back, and this will be her first concert since her disappearance. She's been doing talk show rounds and magazine interviews for weeks. It's going to be the concert of the century! And you have tickets! God, you're so lucky. I heard these sold out within the first few hours they went on sale. I would _kill_ for these."

I laugh, a little nervously. Her enthusiasm is kind of creepy. "I have no doubt in my mind that you would, Chloe. Why don't you take the tickets?"

"Are you freakin' serious?"

"Yeah? That way no one needs to die. What's the big deal? It's the night before a big exam. I can't afford to flunk out of that class to see the omnipotent Hannah Montana."

"Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!" Chloe does her best to hug the wind right out of my lungs. "I'll buy you a souvenir, I promise! Heck, I'll buy you five!"

"Yeah, yeah," I mutter, gently untangling myself from her so that I can change into my ugly, orange and black striped work uniform. I work two jobs, as a sales associate in Halloweenton, a Halloween superstore, and as a delivery girl at a cupcake bakery. I grab the finishing touch to my Halloweenton uniform, a crooked witch's hat, and leave Chloe to gloat over the tickets.

Oliver works at Halloweenton with me. All of the associates wear the same ugly, orange and black striped uniforms, with one exception. Some of us have funky hats, and some of us have masks, all dependant upon what was left in the junk bins at our time of hire. Oliver was burdened with a wolf man mask made out of thick rubber and a thicker matting of faux fur. He's filed three formal complaints, but has had to tough it out so far. Whenever he has a chance to take the thing off, his face is soaked with sweat and his skin is the color of ripe strawberries.

"Two words," he gasps, struggling with the mask," Heat. Stroke." He pushes damp hair out of his face. "That's what I'm going to write in my next complaint. This damn thing is a liability, am I right?"

I nod. "Sure." We're in the back room, enjoying our first break.

He staggers over to the fan and presses his face real close to it. "Ahh," he sighs.

"Did you slide a pair of Hannah Montana tickets under my door?"

He laughs. "No. Why?"

"Because someone did. I thought it might have been you."

"Nope. Hannah Montana? I thought she retired?"

"That's what I said. Apparently she's making a comeback."

"Cool," he shrugs. "Are you going?"

"I have to study for a test that night. I gave the tickets to Chloe."

"Aw, man," he sulks. "You like her better than me, don't you?"

I glower at him, and he backtracks, "You don't, you don't. I'm sorry. That was just a little theatrics I threw in there for effect heightening purposes. But really, you didn't think to ask me? Me, your bestest pal?"

"I didn't think you'd be into it."

"Are you kidding me?"

"Hey. If you really want to go, I can ask Chloe if she'll take you."

He groans. "No thanks."

Chloe comes back from the concert all giddy and giggly. She's trying to be quiet, but the sheer force of her bubblegum pop energy and the loud rattling of her souvenirs wakes me up. I turn on the bedside lamp. "How was the concert?" I ask, rubbing at my eyes. She's carrying two big bags full of merchandise. "Tell me that's not all Hannah Montana stuff?"

She overturns the bags on her mattress. There are cups and posters and t-shirts and hats, a pajama set, and even a doll. She tosses me a hat, a shirt, a poster, and the doll. "For you," she giggles.

I study the doll and the other merchandise. "Thanks," I say. I tuck the doll underneath my bed where I don't have to look at it. Quite frankly, it gives me the creeps. "Do you think you can wait until tomorrow to tell me about the concert? Or is your head going to pop off?"

She giggles. "I can wait, silly."

I turn the lamp off and nuzzle into my blankets, pushing the disturbing image of the Hannah Montana doll out of my mind.

After the test, I stop by the cafeteria to pick up a coffee, and head back to my room. I cross my fingers before pushing inside, hoping that Chloe's not decked out in Hannah Montana gear and waiting for my arrival. It works because the room is empty. There's an envelope on the floor with my name on it. I set my coffee down and pick it up. The handwriting is eerily similar to the Hannah Montana envelope—yes, that's what I call it.

I tear it open and lo and behold, another pair of tickets. Un-freaking-believable, right? Chloe pushes into the room shortly after my arrival. She eyes the tickets on our study desk and gasps. "Are those--?"

"Yep."

"How did—?"

"No fucking clue."

"Are you—?"

"Going to the concert? Not a chance. I have work. See you later." I pocket the tickets on my way out the door.

Oliver's reaction is similar to Chloe's. "Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou," he squeals as he wrangles me into a hug. I feel my bones crunch beneath the pressure.

A co-worker shoots us weird looks as she sidles past us. Oliver quickly breaks away from me and pushes his hair back. "Hey, Angie," he waves.

She ignores him. The snooty bitch. He turns back to me. "Who do you think is giving you these tickets?" he asks.

"I don't know."

"Someone must really want you to go to that concert, don't you think?"

I shrug. "I don't really care. I've got enough problems as it is. I can't afford to play Nancy Drew. So whoever it is behind this craziness is just going to have to fuck off and find someone else to screw with."

"Yeah…" he stares at the tickets. "But aren't you the slightest, teensy weensiest bit curious?"

"No."

"Not even a smidgen?"

"No, Oliver. I don't care. You got it? I wouldn't care even if it was divine intervention. Do me a favor, and forget about all this bizarre shit, okay? Come on, our shift's going to start." I squash my witch's hat over my head and stomp inside Halloweenton.


	8. Chapter 8

Oliver and I are at a party, nursing drinks. There's nothing but 40 oz. bottles of Mickey's. Rumor has it that Jake, the host of the party, got word of a big semi-truck spill, and was able to enlist a few peers to help him snatch a couple of the crates right off the road. As for the likeliness of that occurrence? You tell me. Another account is that Jake's dad owns a brewery, and judging by Jake's modest amount of working brain cells, I'd call it a safe bet.

Oliver is slumped against my shoulder and pointing girls out to me. He's relentless, and doing a superb job at picking at my already frazzled nerves. "How about that one?" he asks, nodding towards a redhead. "Or that one?" It's a blonde this time.

"Oliver, please stop trying."

"With all due respect, Lils, I think it's about damn time you fluff out your horizons--all I'm asking for is a little leg room. It's been 2 and a half years."

"I date." I do.

"No," he shakes his head. "No. What you do is pick up a girl, have your way with her, and then tell her to kick rocks. That, my misinformed friend, is not dating. A nice, healthy, monogamous relationship will do you some good, if you ask me."

"I don't—"

"Have time," he finishes with a grave sigh. "I know. That's your excuse for everything these days."

"Get off my ass, will you?"

"Hey," he chastises. "I ride your ass and I ride it hard because I love you. You can't shrug that off. Do you want another 40?"

I suck the last sip out of my bottle, and plant it on the floor. "Sure."

He stumbles off to fetch us fresh drinks, and I close my eyes for a minute. "Hey," says an innocent enough voice beside me.

I roll my head towards the voice and quirk an eye open. It's a pretty brunette girl. "Hey?" I answer.

"You looked thirsty," she smiles, offering me her drink.

"Um. Actually, my friend Oliver was just getting me—"

"Take the beer already," interrupts Oliver. He's holding one of the bottles in plain view, and the other one hidden behind his back. He sits down on the weight-worn arm of the sofa. "I'm Oliver."

"I figured," laughs the girl, before introducing herself as, "Mikayla."

"This brooding blonde is Lilly," pipes Oliver, squeezing at my cheeks. "Don't let the Debbie Downer façade fool you, Mikayla. Under this tough exterior is pure lighthearted fluff," he smiles and then adds, "And substance, of course. She's funny, too. Smart, did I mention smart? Beautiful, but that's apparent. She has a great smile. Lilly, give the girl a smile--"

I promptly elbow him in the gut and his words go down with an aggrieved _oomph_. "Please shut up. I'm not on an auction block. I'm sorry, Mikayla. He's a toe stepper, and has the tendency to overextend me as a person."

She laughs. "It's not a problem. He does a good job, you know."

"Thanks?" We laugh a little awkwardly. I can feel Oliver watching me closely, like if he doesn't do his self-appointed prying duties and I'm left to my own devices, I'll lose all grips of sanity and bite this girl's head off, or worse, chase her away with a blindsiding bout of uncouthness.

"Do you want to go outside?" she asks me.

"Sure."

I follow her lead and we make it onto the lawn in due time. "What I meant to say was," she whispers, leaning into me, "do you want to see my car?"

The back seat of her car is roomy, and in the event two consenting adults were to engage in sexual acrobatics, no one would find themselves bumping their head on the ceiling or breaking their nose on the door. We're both a little hammered and giggly, and it takes me three fumbles to unclasp her lacey bra, but neither of us mind. The funny, lunkheaded goof-ups are the selling punch lines behind sloppy drunk sex. She tastes sweet and her core squeezes my fingers impossibly tight when I fuck her to an orgasm. And she doesn't complain when I shove her head down between my thighs, or tell her to lick me harder.

By the time Oliver comes looking for us, we're already back in our rumpled clothing. Before she leaves, Mikayla steals my cell phone and pads in her number. "You _better_ call me," she growls against my cheek.

Oliver hands me his 40 and we sit down on the curb and wait for Chloe to show up and chauffer our seriously impaired asses back to the campus. "You got some, didn't you?" he giggles.

"You're drunk."

"Are you going to call her?"

"Maybe."

"_Lilly_."

"Yeah," I confess. "Yeah. I'll call her."

In the following weeks, I receive 5 more envelopes. After consulting with Google and finding out exactly how much the tickets were going for at regular vendors—over 2,000 a pop for front row seats!--I opted to sell them. Parents are fucking loopy for laying two grand just so their snot-nosed kids can slap hands with their idols, but God bless them! I finally paid off used car #2, a gently used Prius I purchased off an old lady who couldn't drive anymore due to her failing eye sigh.

With the car payments off my fatigued shoulders and money to spare, I dropped my cupcake delivery post, including what felt like one literal ton of stress. Life was finally sorting itself out in my favor.

I even called Mikayla back, and used some of my newfound cake to treat her to a couple fancy shmancy dates for the hell of it. Why? Because I like her.

The truth is I haven't liked anyone since Ms. Stewart. I haven't thought about Ms. Stewart, let alone said her name out loud since mid-senior year of high school. I'm starting to think Oliver is right. I've got to move on. Progression is only natural.

Over these past few weeks, we've played getting-to-know you games, hinted at our wants and needs, dished out our likes and dislikes, elaborated on our future aspirations, and I've done my best to dodge and skirt around any sensitive issues. I do plan on telling her about my early upbringing and foster care, even about Ms. Stewart. I keep telling myself I'll bare my goddammed soul when the time is right, and I'm starting to believe it.

Mikayla and I are on my bed, studying our individual text books. I can feel her eyes on me, and the shadows of the unsaid words she's been choking on for the past hour. Finally, she cocks her head to the side and asks, "Where did you get all that money?" Random much? "I know Halloweenton can't pay much…" She giggles. "Are you a drug a dealer?"

I think about how to address the question, and as the silence drones on she gasps and says,"Oh my God. Please tell me you're not a drug dealer."

"I'm not a drug dealer. The politically correct term is recreational pharmacist," I laugh. "Thanks for thinking highly of me."

"Well?" She folds her arms over her chest.

I sigh. "This is going to sound crazy—"

"Wait. Bonkers crazy or bananas crazy?"

"Bananas—"

"Yikes."

"Mikayla…"

She fans herself in preparation and sits up straight. "Okay. I'm listening. Tell me."

"Someone keeps slipping Hannah Montana tickets under my door. Surprise!"

She squints at me, and deadpans, "You're a drug dealer."

"What?"

"Well, the idea of some Hannah Montana Santa Clause sliding much-coveted concert tickets under your door is just ridiculous."

"Who said anything about Santa Clause? I'm chalking it up to my very own, very real Fairy Godmother."

"_Lilly_." She's not buying it.

I reach over to my night stand and pull the last two unsold tickets out of the drawer. "Does this satisfy your curiosity?"

She takes the tickets and scrutinizes them, turning them over a few times, slowly too, like a rotisserie spit. I guess she's trying to deduce their legitimacy. "This is in two weeks. It's supposed to be her last show before hitting Miami." She clasps her hands together and sticks her bottom lip out all cutely. "Can we go? Please?" She bats her eyelashes at me.

"I don't know…"

Mikayla pushes me down so that I'm lying on my back, and deftly straddles my midsection. "I'll make it worth your while," she sing-songs.

"I can't believe you're willing to whore yourself out to go see Hannah Montana."

She traps my wrists above my head and hovers over me with a wicked grin. "Believe it. Besides, is it really that farfetched? I mean, really? Some people would go to greater, _skankier_ lengths for those tickets. Just be grateful that I like you."

"I see…" I playfully struggle against her grasp, but she pins me down harder.

"You're lucky you have such a cool girlfriend. You know, most girls would just whine and pout and withhold sex."

"Girlfriend?"

She smiles. "If you want."

Girlfriend. Girl. Friend. Girlfriend. I was expecting it to feel weirder, awkward, like a foreign word tumbling out of a first year language student's lips. I haven't had one of those since… well, a really, really long time. I reach up and kiss her, tenderly.

Chloe barged into the room as we were basking in the after-glow so we decided to grab coffees and move our study party to Mikayla's apartment. "No roommates?" I ask, setting my backpack onto a table. It's a nice studio apartment with hardwood floors, colorful walls and postmodern paintings. Specific areas are sectioned off by shoji screens.

"Uh, no," she laughs. "Trust fund."

"Right."

"So," she sighs. "It seems like you know all about my sordid little country club family, but I don't know anything about yours."

"There's not much to tell. I joined the foster care system when I was 7 and stayed until I was 18."

"Just like that, huh?"

"Just like that."

"Alright, I'll accept that skimpy answer for now. On with the juicy stuff," she smiles. "Have you broken a lot of girls' hearts? I bet you have."

I laugh. "Not necessarily?"

"Has anyone broken yours?"

I duck my head at this question. "Unintentionally, I guess."

She lifts my chin up and studies my eyes. "Still sore about it?"

"No. It was just a complicated situation. I was 15, she was 23, and my teacher. We got caught. It ended badly." _Phew_. That wasn't _incredibly_ difficult, just moderately so.

"Wow. You know, I did this report on student-teacher affairs in high school. What was her name?"

"Ms. Stewart," I say, and instantly feel my face go hot. "I mean, M-Miley Stewart."

She laughs. "That's cute. You still call her that?"

I shrug, and she drops it. Mikayla scoots in closer and presses her lips to my neck. She wisely moves off the subject. "Did my whoring ways earn me a ticket and a hot date to the Hannah Montana concert?"

"Sure," I smirk, feeling an earlier smugness settle in. "I believe in rewarding _effort_--"

"_Hey!_" She feigns insult and pinches my side, then clobbers me over the head with a decorative pillow and I can't help but think, fleetingly, that this could be the start of something beautiful.


	9. Chapter 9

Mikayla skillfully sashays towards me, engaging in a few dramatic twists and turns to show off her dress. She plays the part of show pony so well. "What do you think?" she asks. "It's not too formal. Not too casual. I'm thinking up a word baby as we speak. What's the term for word babies, again?"

I'm stretched over her couch; hooked ankles lolling off one end and arms tucked behind my head. "Portmanteau?" I offer.

"See, that's why I adore you," she smiles.

"Because I pay attention in Linguistics?"

"Because you're a nerd."

"I like my rationalization better, thanks."

"A sexy nerd."

Mikayla pounces on me and pecks me on the lips. She rests her head against my chest. "So what do you think?"

"About?" I rake my fingers through her straightened hair, and she sighs.

"Famine. Politics. The disappearance of honey bees. My dress. Me in general."

"You look yummy."

I can practically feel the self-satisfied grin welling on her lips as she says, "I thought so too."

"Are you all set?" I say it with all the delicacy I can muster. Mikayla's been primping for what only seems like forever. She's insane when it comes to accessorizing and coordinating her outfits. Painstakingly, might I add. I made the mistake of hastening her one evening, and she nearly popped me one with her red clutch. I wouldn't have bothered asking, but there's a righteous cause for my prodding tonight. We're finally going to see the much-hyped, highly-anticipated Hannah Montana concert. I hate to admit it, but Mikayla's shiny enthusiasm gradually rewired mine, and I really don't want to miss the extravagant opener.

She lifts her head and scoffs, almost disgustedly, "No way. I still have to pick out my shoes? Hello?"

"Of course." I smack my open palm to my forehead. "I'm such an idiot!"

"Hey, don't mock me," she pouts. I stick my tongue out at her, and Mikayla scrambles off me, no doubt beelining towards her leaning tower of shoes.

Aside from classes and work, I've spent the majority of the past two weeks barricaded in Mikayla's apartment. Chloe's struggling with the separation. Every time I see her on campus, she mists up and makes a strangled animal noise. It tugs at my heartstrings a little, but trust when I say I'm being generous with the sympathy.

Mikayla announces that she's ready 20 minutes later, and we're soon bulleting off in my Prius. 10 minutes down the road, she grievously exclaims that she forgot her camera, and begs me to flip a bitch. What should have been a 5 minute mad dash through the apartment lobby, and a 20 story elevator ride in both directions tallied out to 13 and a half minutes due to last second make-up alterations. "It was dire," she insists. "I can't believe you let me walk out in public looking like _that_."

"Like what?"

"Like a hot mess! First of all, that lipstick shade was heinous. It made me look like a tacky streetwalker."

I blink at her. "I can't tell the difference--"

"Excuse me?"

"I-I meant between the shade you were wearing then and the shade you have on now."

She laughs. "You're precious when you think you've put your foot in your mouth, do you know that?" Mikayla brushes tears from her eyes.

"You weren't really mad?"

"No way. I wasn't really mad yesterday either when you made that comment about my jeans," she confesses, biting her lip naughtily.

"But you--and then I..." I glare at her. "Oh, you're good."

Parking is a nightmarish mess, but we manage to steal a slot. We nearly barrel over our usher as we run all the way to the front row, heels be damned, and 'excuse me' and 'sorry' our way to our center-aisle seats just as the opening wave of pyrotechnics explodes on stage, signaling a riot of ear-splitting applause.

The seats are amazing. If you were so inclined, and absolutely fearless of the bodily harm Hannah Montana's burly security team is capable of extracting, you could literally and nearly effortlessly stretch a limb out and touch her.

Upon appearing on stage, the superstar sweeps her eyes over the front row. They look a little glisteny when they rake over me, but it's probably just the crazy lighting. Her music has evolved from the bubblegum pop that I can recall to a deep, soulful rock sound, and the stadium is eating it up. Her performance is solid, although she seems distracted, but what the hell do I know?

"That was the best concert I've been to in ages," gushes Mikayla. We're amidst the colossal herd of chattering fans slowly bleeding out of the arena.

"It was… entertaining," I smirk.

"Stop trying to be cool, Lilly. That concert rocked your fucking socks off and you know it."

"Hell yeah, it did."

She links our arms and leans in. "_I bet I can think of more ways to rock your fucking socks off."_

"You're a goddess." A dirty, dirty goddess.

She kisses my cheek, and drops her head down against my shoulder. "Keep flattering me like that, Lils, and my head's going to get so big that—"

"You'll fly away towards the sun and melt?"

"You know me so well."

"So well."

A hand, roughly the size of God's, smashes through the crowd and grips my shoulder. "What the hell?" I growl, spinning around. I come face to face with a broad chest and quirk my eyes upward towards the wall's face. His banana-fingers are pinching my shoulder so tight I can practically smell my tears.

"Lilly Truscott?" he asks, in a voice as squeaky as a rubber chew toy. It's almost endearing.

"That would be me."

"Do you mind getting your hand off of my girlfriend?" snaps Mikayla.

He sheepishly releases my shoulder. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, all teddy bear-like. Talk about not knowing your own strength. "I'm supposed to give you this." He hands me a V.I.P. pass. It's laminated and dangling off a lanyard.

"Just one?" I ask. "What about Mikayla?"

Mikayla folds her arms over her chest and pouts, "Yeah, what about Mikayla?"

He shakes his head. "I'm sorry, but they only gave me one."

"Who's they?" I squint.

He shuffles around a bit, obviously uncomfortable with the third degree. "I'm not at liberty to disclose that information."

"Well, I'm not going anywhere by myself." I hand him back the pass. "I may be a lot of things, but dumbass isn't one of them. At least not tonight it isn't."

"Wait," he calls. "I can't screw this up. How about if you guys just hang around by the stage while I ask my boss?"

"I don't know—"

"Lilly," begs Mikayla. "Please?"

I ask him to give us a second and pull her off to the side. "Don't you find this whole thing a little strange?" I whisper. "First the concert tickets, now the backstage pass? What if there's a stalker waiting for me back there with a potato sack?"

She giggles. "Don't be silly. You wouldn't fit in a potato sack."

"Mikayla!"

"I doubt that's going to happen. Hello, law suit? Look, if there's some lame stalker person back there and they try to pick you up, I'll just show them my guns, baby, and they'll back off. I promise." She gives me a sound kiss. "You trust me right?"

Apparently so because Mike, the security guy, came back with good news and we're being lead backstage. There's a select group of V.I.P.-ers already there. Mikayla mingles like the social butterfly she is, and I eagerly let her snag the limelight and busy myself with a little self-guided exploration of the grounds. I'm studying a prop when Mike taps me on the shoulder. "Miss Montana would like to see you," he says.

"Huh?"

"Miss Montana would like to see you," he repeats.

I look back towards Mikayla, and Mike immediately crunches my train of thought. "Alone," he adds.

"Are you kidding me? Am I on some lame MTV special? One of their candid camera shows, perhaps?"

He laughs. "No."

I frown at him, skeptical as ever. "I'm not even a huge Hannah Montana fan. Why would she want to see me? Were our ticket stubs entered in a raffle or something?"

"Look, kid, I don't know. I'm just a butt monkey around here. Why don't you ask her yourself?" He retreats a couple steps and stops, sighing noisily. "You coming?"

I chew on my lip and toss a glance at Mikayla once again. She's engaged in an animated rant by the looks of it. Her hands are flailing around dramatically, and her charisma's got everyone in a chokehold. I'm bound to rack up major points if I come back with a Hannah Montana autograph way before the superstar even makes her scheduled V.I.P. appearance.

I slowly nod my head, and follow him down a narrow corridor, to a room marked with a big yellow star and the name Hannah Montana smack dab in the middle of it. Mike stops a few feet away. "Just go in," he says.

"Are you sure? What if she's, you know, indecent?"

"Those were the instructions I was given."

I twist the knob, expecting it to hitch, but it turns smoothly and the door clicks open. "Um, hello?" I call out. The apprehension in my tone is thick, but I find myself puttering past the threshold. To my surprise, I find the superstar staring at me from across the room. Her pretty face is a mask of neutrality, but there's something unmistakable and barely contained just beneath it. "Uh, Miss Montana? Hannah? I'm not too sure what to call you exactly," I mumble, licking my suddenly dry lips. "Yeah, so, uh, you wanted to see me?"

She makes her way towards me in the slowest, most calculated pace imaginable, almost like she's trying to savor every stride. The intensity in her eyes is bruising. The vibrant orbs are slick with tears. Her unbridled energy makes me edge backwards, until my back's flat against the door and there's no more backwards to edge to. "You're kind of freaking me out a little," I joke.

The last coherent thought that flitters through my cloudy head, as she comes so close our fronts are pressed together, is that Hannah Montana has no concept of personal space. And then her trembling hands are cradling my face and her lips are on mine. I taste passion fruit lip gloss and tears, and I'm so stunned my body could very well have caught on fire and I wouldn't have been able to tell the difference.

She kisses my lips until they're swollen, and then trails a parade of kisses all over my face. "I missed you so much," she whispers into my neck. Fresh tears are smattering all over my skin, and her wet lashes kind of tickle, but I can't move. Even if, hypothetically speaking, Hannah Montana turns out to be crazy and delusional, the raw passion she's entrapped me with feels so genuine and profound it's got my heart aching.

"I-I'm sorry," I finally manage to squeak, feeling like an asshole for losing my voice for so long and stealing the rightful recipient's affections. "But I, uh, I think you may be mistaking me for someone else…"

Her body trembles with laughter. "I forgot to do this," she sighs, taking a step back, and reaching for her blonde locks. She grips the base and tugs, shaking out long sultry brown curls.

"M-Ms. St-Stewart?" My brain seems to explode and the world appears a little more wobbly than usual, and then a lot more wobbly than usual. I feel my eyes roll to the back of my head, and _WHOMP_--my body drops like a wet sack of puppies.


	10. Chapter 10

"By the way, I so knew that was a wig," is the first thing I hear when I come to, "Has anyone ever told you that you look better as a brunette?"

"Not many people know I'm a brunette. You'd think they'd be able to see through the wig, especially since it's my only element of disguise, but you'd be surprised."

"I never understood how the entire city of Metropolis ever bought that Clark Kent and Superman were two different guys, but now I'm fairly convinced that it could have worked. If you're ever on the market for variety, you might want to swap the wig out for a pair of t_rès_ chic glasses."

Their voices are warbled and bleary, and there's a dull ache in every cobweb-y nook and grimy crevice of my brain. When I try to open my eyes, a medley of shadowy shapes and spotty impressions smear my vision. A deep groan tumbles out of my guts, and two concerned and equally squinty faces immediately bob into view.

"Lilly?" They speak at the same time.

"_Ugh_," is all that comes out. I try to push myself upright, but two distinct hands keep me stuck to the floor.

"Don't strain yourself," says Ms. Stewart.

"Yeah, Lils, just relax," urges Mikayla. "How are you feeling?"

"Not good," I moan. "Can I have some water?"

"I'm on it, Ma'am," answers a lanky assistant, nearly clumsying over his own feet.

"Ooh," coos Mikayla. "Rush servitude. I like that."

He hurries back with a bottle of water, and they carefully prop me up. The bottle cap is heaved to the side and the crisp liquid washes away some of the fogginess.

Mikayla and Ms. Stewart are tolerating each other fairly well, and if I didn't know any better I'd even say they were getting along. _Curious._ Although I hate to poop on anyone's parade—especially mine, logic tells me there's got to be a catch. So where the hell is it?

"Come on, baby, let's get you home," smiles Mikayla. "I know what I promised you earlier, but considering the circumstances, I think you'll have to settle for lots of snuggles and all-you-can-stand pillow fluffage."

"_Baby?_" Ms. Stewart sounds like someone bitch-slapped her. A nagging hunch leads me to believe that someone is Mikayla. And this is where I gum my eyes shut and brace myself, hard and true.

"_Please_ tell me you don't have a problem with my sexual orientation? You just earned a load of cool points, and I'd hate to take them all back."

My eyes unwittingly pop back open.

"No, of course not."

"Then what's the issue?"

"You didn't let me finish," she says. "I never said I didn't have a problem with _you_—"

"Oh my God, Lilly, are you listening to this?" Mikayla's eyes don't budge off of Ms. Stewart's. "What's your deal? I mean, I heard pop stars were supposed to be mega bitches, but where does it end?"

Two body guards dutifully sniff out the potentially dangerous breed of tension and park their brawny hineys on either side of Ms. Stewart. "Miss Montana?" interrupts the taller, gutsier one.

"Please give us a minute, Lenny," she snaps.

"But—"

"Please leave," she demands, much less amiably. There are horrified gasps, and then every staff member present grudgingly retreats, leaving just the three of us inside this progressively stuffier dressing room. The walls seem to be pushing together, or maybe it's just Mikayla and Ms. Stewart. They're nearly nose-to-nose now.

"Stop it!" I rasp, finagling my way between the two. "Before you decide to throw down or whatever it is you guys think you're about to do, let me explain. Okay?" The corners of their formidable body language soften, and I know I've successfully gotten them to relinquish the soap box, at least for a little while. "Mikayla," I start, "is my girlfriend. And this," I suck in a deep breath before motioning to my former teacher, "is M-Ms. Stewart—"

"Your teacher?" gasps Mikayla. "As in _the_ Ms. Stewart?"

"Lilly's told you about _us_, then?"

"We discussed it. It's not like she talks about you all the time, if that's what you're thinking. It came up, and that was that," she clarifies, and the smirk on Ms. Stewart's face loosens to a feeble blip. "You never told me she was Hannah Montana!" She pokes a rigid finger into my shoulder. "Because there are unspoken rules about hanging out with exes!" Her glare swings towards Ms. Stewart.

"I didn't know," I defend, rubbing at my whimpering shoulder. "Call me insane, but I thought Hannah Montana was Hannah Montana!"

"She really didn't know," offers Ms. Stewart. "And Lilly, you can call me Miley. You're not in high school anymore."

I open my mouth to apologize, but Mikayla points a menacing finger at me. "Don't you dare call her that," she warns. "We _really_ have to go. Like 10 minutes ago."

"No, Lilly, you should stay--"

"She really shouldn't—"

"_Yes_, she should."

"_No_, she—"

"Guys!" I crack, one schoolyard taunt away from uprooting every strand of hair on my head. "I can't be around either of you right now! I'm leaving."

"_Ha_," grins Mikayla, poking her tongue out at Ms. Ste—Miley.

"Alone," I growl.

I cancel out their pleading voices with an addlebrained melody, and stalk down the narrow hallway, nudging past dancers, technicians and security guards. I can't believe my stupid, volatile luck! It's always either been too good at all the wrong times, or entirely absent. And yes, you hedonistic disbelievers, too much of a good thing—candy, love, alcohol, ice cream, carnival rides, sunshine, drugs, puppies--sucks. I promise.

Chloe hugs me when I show up at the dorm all mopey-faced and drenched to the bone. During the car ride over, it began to storm, vehemently. Dramatic, huh? I didn't bother sprinting across the lawn to spare myself a couple insignificant raindrops because I was pretty much soaked after a dozen measly steps.

"Do you want to talk about it?" coaxes Chloe as I towel off. Her tone's gentle and supportive, and the invitation has never been so tempting.

"I—" I realize that she would never believe me, not in a million freaking years. I mean, how farfetched are my life problems right now? I think some people would opt for insanity rather than these soggy shoes.

I don't know when I started laughing, but tears are streaming down my face and my mouth is aching from being stretched so wide for so long. Soon Chloe's giggling too. My stomach begins to hurt from all the hardy _har hars_, and for the first time in my life, I laugh myself to sleep.

Oliver and I are eating lunch at a quaint Italian restaurant. We picked it out because it seemed to be having a slow day. There are two other people in here besides us, and they're too engrossed with their spaghetti and meatballs to even think about eavesdropping.

I just finished recounting last night's drama, and although the brunt of Oliver's astonishment has passed, he's still a little floored. "Pretty soon," he kids, "you're not going to be able to shock me at all. I can't believe it… Hannah Montana… man! Don't get me wrong, you were cool before what with the whole teacher thing, but Hannah Montana ups the ante, smashes it out of the ballpark. You are now officially the coolest high school-er, ever," his nose crinkles up, "Or were the coolest high school-er ever, uh, you get what I mean. I'm talking history hall of fame material!"

"Oliver, you're _really_ not helping," I grumble.

"Oh, right. Sorry, Lils…"

"I'm having a brain meltdown. I've been having a brain meltdown since yesterday. It's a gradual process, but it doesn't make it any less sucky or painful."

"Let's try to think through this a bit. Maybe once every thought is packed away in its own little organized brain pocket, things will clear up. Okay, first order of business and probably the deal breaker or maker, do you still have feelings for Ms. S?"

"Ms. S?"

"Yeah, that's what I used to call her when I was in Theater class."

"I think we should both make a pointed effort to call her by her first name."

He rolls his eyes as if to say 'give me a break', but nods his head. "Okay, fine, just answer the question." He forks linguini into his mouth. "Take your time."

"Yes. I mean, I think I do. It was intense, you know? And when she kissed me, my stomach dropped, but in a good way. In a really good way. And when I found out it was her, God, my heart just wouldn't shut up, and all my blood rushed to my head, which is probably why I fainted, but all those crazy, overwhelming feelings just came flooding back like she'd been there all along…" Just thinking about it gets sumo butterflies kicking in my stomach.

"It's settled then," mumbles Oliver. "Dump Mikayla and go out with Ms.—sorry, Miley."

I chew on my lip. "I can't," I groan.

"Why not? The Okenator can only do so much, Lils."

"Because I really, really, really like Mikayla. Scary like. I was, am falling for her hard and fast. Just because Ms. Ste—Miley shows up with this huge surprise and a can of familiar worms doesn't mean the feelings I have for Mikayla are wiped out," I explain, exasperated. "Not even a little."

"That's tough," he grunts.

"_You think?_" I shove my plate away. "I can't choose, Ollie. They can't ask me to."

"I hate to break the news to you, Lilly, but they can and they will. You do realize that, right? There's no way around this. You need to talk to both of them. Preferably on separate occasions."

"I can't. Not right now."

"That's fine, as long as you do it when you feel ready, okay?"

I smile up at him. It's puny and doesn't reach my eyes, but it's all I've got. "Thanks, Oliver. You're the best."

"Well duh. If I wasn't, you wouldn't call me your _best_ friend now, would you?" he jokes. It's lame, but makes me feel tons better. He ruffles my hair, and I let him clean up my plate.

After our lunch, Oliver insists that we go watch some overblown action flick. "To take your mind off things," he says. It works. I was completely problem-free for 1 glorious hour and 56 minutes. After that, we stop by a mutual friend's apartment with the intention of taking full advantage of her impressive smorgasbord of booze .

"Isn't it a little early?" asks Sarah after we present our proposal.

"It's never too early to drink in these types of situations," chides Oliver.

She just laughs and waves us in. "Whatever. Just don't wreck anything while I'm gone.

"Aw, Sarah-saurus, where are you going?" he whines.

"Work. How else can I afford to enable your drinking problem?"

"See you later, Sar," I say.

She gives me a hug and whispers, "I hope you feel better," before heading out.

Oliver and I get down to business and I'm halfway sloshed in no time. It gets me thinking about Ms.—I know, _I know_—Miley, and Mikayla. "I miss her," I sigh, digging out another Smirnoff.

"Who?" Oliver quirks his head at me.

"Mikayla, no wait, Miley… No wait," I frown. "I miss them both."

He pats my head. "Maybe you should stick with the stronger stuff…"

"Oliver!"

"What? I'm just trying to help!"

"They haven't even called me," I groan.

"Where's your phone?"

I tug it out of my pocket with much effort and pitch it to him. He holds his hands out expectantly, but it sails past his head and wedges into the couch cushions. "A ha," he smirks once he's fished it out. "It's not even on, you doughnut," he laughs. "Jeez…" He tinkers with the buttons and it chirps out a 'hello' as the screen comes to life. A symphony of voicemail alerts, text message _pings_, and missed call _pongs_ flood Sarah's living room.

"Oh yeah," I giggle.

"Well, there you go. The missing is obviously mutual. Are you gonna call her back?"

"Nah."

"Just a second ago you were complaining that you hadn't heard from them," he points, shaking his head. "You're unbelievable."

"You told me I didn't have to talk to them until I was ready."

"Right, well whatever, you're still my hero, Lils. Do you know that? You're freakin' legend!"

I bat away the drunken compliments and steal his drink. "Slow your roll, alchie. You're escorting me back to the dorms later, remember? I don't want it to look like a scene out of _Night of the Living Dead_."

"I get it," he laughs, holding an arm to his stomach.

It's late and eerily still. Only one of the rooms in my hall is illuminated. Oliver and I trudge down the hallway, arms slung around each other's shoulders and heads flopping lazily. We're grinning, mouths as wide as watermelon wedges, and trying our absolute best not to make too much noise, but my feet can only advance in wayward steps, and we're tumbling into each other more than anything. "Fuck, Oliver. Stop stepping on my shoe," I giggle. My face is hot, and my eyes feel heavy as lead vests, but I feel in-fucking-credible!

"I didn't step on your shoe," he insists, just as giggly. "You stepped on mine!"

"You're crazy!"

"You're a shoe-stepper! Look at 'em, they're all scuffed now, you friggin'—friggin' shoe killer!" The laughter reaches a crescendo, and we're both doubled over now.

The door beside us flings open; giving way to a tousled, sleep-laden girl in the most embarrassing set of footed pajamas I have ever had the privilege of laying my eyes on! The heinous sight stokes the unchecked fire that is our laughter, adding tinder bundle after delicious tinder bundle, and I can almost see the girl soaring under her covers to ball her eyes out. Instead, she fidgets self-consciously, and stutters, "Can you k-keep it down?"

I can only hold up a trembling 'okay' sign because I'm out of breath, and she gives us another brave semi-glare before retreating. Oliver's wheezing and noisily hacking out a lung. "Oh God," he groans. "I think I'm gonna hurl."

"Don't do it, Oken," I warn. His cheeks puff out a few times, but the nausea seems to pass after some good deep-breathing.

We finally stumble past my door. "Jeez, it's dark," grunts Oliver.

"_Shh_," I urge, slapping my palm into his chest. "Chloe's sleeping. Stay here. I'll turn on the light." I squint through the darkness and push forward, stubbing my toe right off the bat. "_Motherfu--!_" I hiss, fumbling to the floor.

The lights click on. "Lilly?" asks Mikayla. She's propped up on my bed. Her voice is small and foggy, like she's just woken up.

"Mikayla? Why are you—what are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you," she says simply. "You haven't been answering my calls, and I just… I just really wanted to see you."

I push myself off the floor, and kneel down on the bed, sweeping her up in a hug. "I missed you," I breathe, about to kiss her when Oliver clears his throat.

"Hi, Mikayla," he waves.

"Hey, Oliver," she smiles.

"Uh… do you guys mind if I crash here tonight?" He's yawning, and swaying on his toes a little.

I toss him a spare pillow and he helps himself to one of Chloe's folded up blankets and lays out by the door. I can tell by his loud, logging machine snore that he's out as soon as his head kisses the pillow.

Mikayla and I giggle a little, but the atmosphere soon grows serious as she grabs my hand and yanks me towards her. I tumble on top of her, my hips pressing between her thighs. We both groan, and she peers into my eyes expectantly. The desire coursing through me is heady and unyielding, no doubt augmented by all the alcohol in my system.

Mikayla reaches towards the night stand and turns off the lamp.

My lips find hers, and the world as I know it melts away.

_BAM! BAM! BAM!_ Okay, I'm exaggerating, but that's what the gentle knocking sounds like to my ears. There's a warm body tucked against me, and I groan, hoping beyond hope that I didn't make a fatal mistake in what was supposed to be a night of laid-back drunkenness, and not at all debauched drunkenness. I scrub at my eyes and peek down at the body… Mikayla? Phew! I mean, it's bad, but not random stranger bad, you know? Next, I survey the room. Chloe's twitching in her slumber, sleep mask firmly in place. Oliver's face is glistening with drool, the slime has puddled on the floor. The knocking continues, and no one stirs. I pick my clothes off the floor and roughly shove my limbs through them before answering the door. "Yeah," I grumble, keeping my eyes closed as I knead my forehead. "What do you want?"

"Lilly—" Shit. Shit. Shit!

I look up and gulp. "Uh, hey, Miley. What are you doing here?" I try to close the door as much as I can without snapping my neck.

"I wanted to see you," she whispers. Boy, am I popular. "We didn't get to talk the other day, and I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry… I don't know what got into me," she bites her lip, "Actually, that's not true. I do know what got into me." She hangs her head. "I was jealous. All this time, I've been waiting, counting down the days until I could see you again. Do you know how hard that was? At first I didn't think you were going to come at all, but I couldn't stop trying," she admits. "Even though I had spent all this time preparing myself, and rehearsing all the things I'd say and all the things you'd say, I-I wasn't ready. I don't know if you noticed, but I almost screwed up my show that night. I couldn't concentrate with you standing just a few feet away from me… When I saw you in the dressing room, all those scenarios I kept playing and re-playing inside my head just flew out the window. When I found out about," she swallows, "_her_, it killed me. I thought you'd be waiting for me too. All this time, I thought…," she shakes her head, and rubs the tears out of her eyes. "I don't know what I thought."

My heart is dying. _I swear to God my heart is fucking dying._ My face is slick with bittersweet tears, and I want nothing more than to take her in my arms and tell her that I _have_ been waiting for her, that she's been the only thing in my dreams since I first saw her back in that blue and mustard-tiled auditorium. "Miley," I rasp. "You were right. I've thought about you as much as you've thought about me. I didn't think I'd ever see you again… Mikayla's just--," I lick my lips. Intricate emotions coupled with a wicked hangover have got me fumbling over my words now, picking them almost haphazardly. "I met her at a party and Oliver kept pushing me to date and move past everything that happened, and I just, I went along with it—"

"I didn't know that's how you felt about me," says Mikayla, interrupting my muddled speech. The unadorned hurt in her voice makes my blood run cold. She shoulders past me in her rumpled clothing, eyes glistening and arms folded tightly over her chest. "Bye, Lilly… Miley." She hurries down the hallway.

"Wait," I yell, making a few quick strides towards her. "Mikayla!" She disappears around the corner.

When I turn back around, Miley's gone too.

A twofer of anger and devastation outright sacks me, leaving me completely breathless. I feel my body reacting, first by way of unpleasant tingles, and then in the radical form of my fist barreling into a wall. The plaster caves inward and I slide down to the floor, sobbing into the crook of my arm. My mind pastes together its first silent prayer in years… _Please, God, help me out of this fucking mess. _


End file.
